Toward a Dark Horizon
by Philippa
Summary: When Bruce's custody of Richard Grayson is challenged, he finds himself in a deadly race to discover the truth about his young ward.
1. Prologue

**A/N** This story is a sequel to my short fic _The Nestling_, however, it can be read on its own. (I would _suggest_ reading the other story – it's only six chapters.) After a bit of internal debate, I decided that I had better stick this in the _Batman Begins_ section rather than the straight _Batman_. (Although I personally don't see the need for a separate category.)

And the reason I chose to start this story on August 1 is…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

(And a slightly late Happy Birthday to Gewher!)

**Rated** for moderate violence, intensity, and drug abuse.

**Disclaimer** Aside from the obvious, I thought it would be fun to use this space each chapter to give credit to an author or work (other than Batman/DC Comics) that has influenced the chapter.

So, no, I do not own Batman, nor do I own the novel _Crossfire_, by Jeanette Windle, which was guilty of undue influence on this section.

**Prologue**

_O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend  
The brightest heaven of invention...  
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire  
Crouch for employment._

_Henry V, Prologue_

The door to the nursery opened. "Señorita Cecilia," the black gowned maid called. "Señor Gutierrez asks that you come to his office."

"Gracias, Rosita. I will be down in a moment. Samara has one page more to read."

"I will tell him."

Rosita shut the door behind her and Cecilia returned her attention to the small girl. "Bueno, Samara, we must hurry. Your father wishes to see me."

"Si, Señorita," the girl sighed and looked down at the page. "Left foot…Ri…rih…"

"Right," Cecilia interposed.

"Right foot. F…ee…t…feetfeet. Oh how many f…eet you m…ee…t." Samara closed the book triumphantly, then demanded in rapid Spanish, "Señorita Cecilia, _why_ must I learn to read in English?"

"Ah, so that you may grow up to be a rich and famous woman of business."

"But what if I do not _wish_ to be a woman of business?" the girl demanded, throwing her hands in the air.

"It is what your father wishes."

"But it is not what _I_ wish."

"Ah, no, I know what you wish. You wish to eat chocolates all day and never brush your hair," Cecilia teased. "But you cannot receive a salary for that."

Samara stamped her foot. "I do _not_. I will be a singer, like Shakira. Then all of the gentlemen will adore me and _buy _me chocolates. That is what they do for Rosita, and she does not even sing."

"Bah, Rosita is silly to encourage them. One day she will get into trouble. And with you, it is _always _the chocolates." Cecilia shook her finger at her small charge.

"Do not scold me, Señorita Cecilia. You eat the chocolates too, for I saw you in the kitchen with a whole box of bonbons."

Cecilia laughed. "Yes, but do not tell your mamá. She thinks I am too fat. But enough silliness, I must go to your papá."

Cecilia left the room, and paused before the mirror in the hall. A plump brown face above a demure black dress peered back at her. "Bah," she murmured impatiently as she smoothed wayward strands of dark hair behind her ears and pushed the heavy black frames of her glasses up her nose. Thus prepared, she hurried down the polished mahogany staircase and knocked discreetly on the door at the bottom.

"Come in."

She entered and shut the door. The first thing that struck her was the heat. The entire house was equipped with central air, but the office felt as if it were situated in the middle of the rainforest rather than an exclusive suburb in Bogotá.

Enrique Gutierrez, her employer, sat behind the desk, beads of sweat trickling down his handsome face. His father-in-law, Don Carlos Morales, stood before the fireplace, poking idly at the flaming logs with a poker. Although Cecilia had lived with the Gutierrez family for nearly a year, this was the first time she had seen any fireplace serve more than a decorative function. The third man was unknown to her. He stood against the wall near the door, dressed in a black t-shirt and black slacks, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

But if anything was unusual in this, Cecilia's face did not express it. Walking to stand before the desk, she inclined her head respectfully. "You sent for me, Señor?"

It was not Gutierrez, but Don Carlos who answered. "Yes, Señorita Perez, _we_ sent for you. Won't you sit down?"

"Gracias, Señor Morales." Cecilia perched on the edge of the deep leather chair, her face reflecting perplexity.

Don Carlos stared reflectively into the fire as he spoke, in English this time. "I have a problem, Señorita, and I wondered if you might help me with it."

"Of course, Señor, if I can." Cecilia responded in the same language, her accent slightly more pronounced than that of Don Carlos.

"I very much hope that you can. You see, it seems that we have a spy in this house. This…criminal…broke into this office last night and made copies of some information that was on the computer."

Cecilia's eyes widened in shock. "Señor, that is terrible! That someone in this house should do such a thing!"

He smiled. "I see that we think alike. You will help me to recover what was stolen, will you not?"

She answered hesitantly, "Yes, Señor, but…I do not see what I can do."

"You can tell me what you did with the information."

Honest confusion covered the woman's face. "Tell you…but you think that I am this spy?"

"I do not think, I am convinced."

Cecilia sprang to her feet in alarm. Behind her large glasses, her eyes were filled with fear. "Señor, you are mistaken!"

Don Carlos at last drew the poker from the fire. Its red hot tip flared as he turned. "No, Señorita. I don't think so."

------

The fortune teller sat in the middle of her small tent, the dank smells of incense and rain hovering around her. It had been an unprofitable night – the small town was nearly played out, and what few customers had trickled in left before the show was even over, discouraged by the rain and the leaky big top.

She lifted an arm so that dozens of brassy bangles clashed, and pulled the spangled scarf from her head. A frayed bun of graying hair appeared, and the mysterious Madame Moliana Mercianne diminished into middle-aged Molly Mercer. She absently pulled the inch-long false lashes from her left eye, listening resignedly to the rain on the roof. Tearing everything down in this mud was going to be…

"Hey!" The startled shout from outside interrupted her gloomy thoughts. It was Zeke, her guard dog/ticket boy, and he sounded frightened. "You…you can't go in there."

There came the sound of a brief scuffle, and then the tent flap was thrust back. Molly caught the briefest glimpse of a looming silhouette, massive and horned, before the flap dropped with a gust of wind that extinguished all but one of her candles.

Heart in her throat, she still managed to snap, "If you want your fortune told you should have come earlier. We're closed."

The shadow seemed to grow until it filled the small space. The slight light did nothing to penetrate its darkness as it growled, "My future is my own business. The information I want concerns the past."

Molly sniffed. "If you intend to impress by theatrics you should've tried somewhere besides the circus. Now go away and practice jumping out of closets or something." She deliberately turned her back on the thing and began to pack her crystal ball in its Styrofoam wrappings.

"Who was Robyn Grayson?"

Molly froze, the delicate ball nearly tumbling from her fingers.

"She had a husband named Charles," the rasping voice persisted, "and a son called…"

"Richard, yes, I know," Molly interrupted, resuming her task. "And I'll tell you what I told the others. I don't know anything, and if I did I certainly wouldn't tell you."

The was a hiss of rapidly drawn breath. "What others?"

"The other nosy people who come around, asking questions about these Grayson folks. But at least _they_ had the decency to come when they're allowed, _and_ pay the proper ticket price."

"How long…" His question was cut short by shouts.

"Hurry! He's in there!" came Zeke's high pitched cry.

"It's been a pleasure, Madam Mercianne. The people I meet in my line of work aren't usually so…charming."

Molly spun, but too late. All that remained of her intruder was a swaying tent flap and a piece of paper floating to the ground. She picked it up and looked appreciatively at the picture of Benjamin Franklin.

Zeke, followed by two burly roustabouts, burst into the tent. "Where did he go?"

Molly shrugged. "Who cares?" She showed Zeke the hundred dollar bill. "He was a real gentleman." She tucked the money carefully away and added, "All the same, the sooner we clear out of this town, the happier I'll be. I'm not too fond of the weather. Or the wildlife."

------

He sat alone in the soft light of the lamps, his face pale against the black leather of his luxurious chair. Long, sensitive fingers steepled against his chin, he stared thoughtfully at the pastel swirls of color hung on the opposite wall – a Monet, officially thought to have been destroyed during the Second World War.

_But here it hangs_. He smiled with the pleasure of his secret water lilies and allowed his eyes to travel across the soft blue and ivory of the fringed Persian rug, to touch on dark and polished wood, caress the shine of dustless crystal. It was, by any standard, a beautiful room – extravagant, elegant, soothing – safe haven.

_And yet…_

His thumb fiddled with the corner of a letter on his desk, a message that was a paper earthquake shaking the foundations of even this inner sanctuary. _Only the foolish grasp more than they can hold. A wise man will be heedful of the time…a time to plant, a time to uproot…Yes, my time has come._

Before him lay a game of Solitaire, the white cards brilliant against the ebony of the desk. The delicate fingers transferred the seven of clubs to the eight of hearts. _I see my hand, and I know those of my opponents. Except…_

He flipped over the next to last unknown. The king of spades stared up, unmoving and unmovable from his place atop the final card. _And so, my friend, you appear at the last and set my strategies tumbling uselessly about my ears._

Swiftly, he gathered the lost game into a neat stack, set it precisely beside the pen holder. He picked up the card that had been set aside, the one that was not played within the rules. He held it for a moment, angling the glossy surface to catch the light. _A card up the sleeve is an old but worthy trick. I wonder whether you could be persuaded to play with the others?_

He set the joker carefully on the stack and turned out the light.

_To be continued…_

**A/N** A special thank you to those readers who reviewed the last chapter of _The Nestling_! And an advance special thank you to those of you who will review the first chapter of this one! (Does this qualify as counting my chickens before they hatch?)


	2. The REAL Chapter One

**A/N** Well, I've been wasting a few hours of my young life catching up on the older Batman movies, and I have to say that _Begins_ absolutely blows them all out of the water. And WHY must every love interest in Bruce Wayne's life be SO UNBELIEVABLY ANNOYING! It _was_ interesting to watch _Batman Forever_ and discover Warner Brothers' version of Robin's origins. Substantially different from mine!

Updates will occur about every five days until I go back to school. Then they will happen once a week (hopefully).

**Disclaimer** I would like to thank the creators of _Batman & Co._ for letting me play with their characters. I would also like to thank the makers of Scooby Doo (kings of using abandoned amusement parks as criminal hideouts).

**Chapter One**

_How many miles to Babylon?  
Three score and ten.  
Can I get there by candlelight?  
Aye, and back again.  
If your feet are nimble and light,  
You'll get there by candlelight._

_Traditional Nursery Rhyme_

December 2 – _Four months since Richard Grayson moved to Wayne Manor_

Bruce Wayne tossed his keys to the valet and ran up the steps. "Hello, Alfred."

"Good afternoon, Master Wayne. How was the board meeting?" Alfred rescued the suit coat before it hit the floor.

"Same as always." Bruce tugged viciously at his tie. "Jeffers argued with everything Fox said, Fredericks still thinks I'm going to burn Wayne Tower to the ground, and we broke for lunch early." He snapped his fingers, "That reminds me, there _was_ something different today."

"And what was that, sir?"

"I tried the rye instead of the twelve grain with my salami and ricotta."

"Well, that's good news. How can the company help but leap into the corporate lead when its owner exhibits such dash and innovation?" Alfred collected the tie and the shoes and stood waiting for the socks.

"My thoughts exactly." Bruce wiggled his toes gratefully. "Is Dick home?"

"Yes, sir. He returned from his luncheon with Miss Dawes an hour ago. Miss Dawes said that Master Dick wished to speak with you when you arrived home."

"Ah…_Rachel_ told you?"

"Yes, sir."

Bruce lifted his eyebrows. "Okaaay. Where is he?"

"In the pool."

Entering the enormous glass room which doubled as pool and conservatory, Bruce found his ward sitting on the edge of the water, splashing his feet.

"Hey," Bruce greeted, sitting down cross-legged beside the eight-year-old boy. "Alfred said Rachel said you wanted to talk to me."

"Yeah." Dick ceased kicking and picked absorbedly at a scab on his knee. When he had worked the edge of it loose so that it could flap back and forth he continued, "Me and Rachel saw my mom today."

_What?_

"Where she's buried."

_Oh._ Bruce clasped his hands. "So…how was it?"

Dick forcefully wiggled the loose scab. "It was her idea."

"I…see."

"She bought flowers and everything. But she was kind of upset when we got there."

_Uh oh._ "Why?"

"Well, it was in the cement-ary for people who don't have much money. So Rachel said I should talk to you about it. I don't know why." The boy ripped the scab off, revealing the shiny, pink flesh beneath it.

Bruce felt a sharp stab of guilt. It was true, he _should_ have done something about Robyn Grayson's grave. "I suppose she thought your mom deserved to be in a nicer place. What do you think?"

Dick kicked furiously, splashing his orange flame swim trunks. "She always said, it didn't matter where we were as long as we were together. Well, I guess it doesn't matter now, either." Without waiting for Bruce's reply, he flung himself into the water, swimming as hard as he could for the deep end.

Bruce sat watching, the cold, helpless feeling swirling around his stomach. _Great, now what?_ Rachel apparently wanted him to push the subject, but Bruce's own inclination was to give the kid his space. _What am I supposed to do?_ A copper disk caught his eye, and he picked up the abandoned penny, probably an escapee from Dick's pockets. _Heads I try to talk to him, tails I leave him alone_. He tossed the coin in the air and let it fall to the concrete. It hit the ground rolling and disappeared into the overflow drain.

_Well, that was helpful._

------

The woman huddled as close to the car door as her seatbelt would allow, her fingers white-knuckled as they clenched together in her lap. A dark bruise decorated her cheek and a trail of blood had dried between her lip and chin, souvenirs of her collision with the dashboard before she'd gotten the seatbelt fastened. Her terrified gaze wavered between the flashing scenery and the silhouette of her companion.

He sat calmly behind the wheel, betraying no sign of anxiety or excitement as the speedometer crept past one hundred. Even the glaringly red grin splashed across his pale face seemed oddly emotionless. The waning winter sunlight caused the synthetic fibers of his wig to burn with green fire and cast his weird shadow across the terrified passenger.

The red Ferrari swung around a tight curve, wheels screaming, and the woman let out a muffled shriek. The driver cast her a quick glance, scanned the road ahead, and stomped on the brake. The car skidded to a stop, slamming the woman against her shoulder strap. The only sounds in the sudden silence were muffled sobs and two clicks as the driver undid his own seatbelt and then hers.

The garish mouth parted. "Ah, my dear…" He peered at her gold nametag. "…Marcia, am I imagining things, or do you really not approve of my driving?"

She bit her lip and managed to stifle her sobs, looking away out the window at the iron bridge rail and the winter-dead landscape.

He sighed heavily. "Very well. Let it not be said I held a lady against her will." He looked at her expectantly, but she remained frozen and silent. "Now what could you be waiting for? Oh yes, of course, how thoughtless of me." He walked around the car and opened her door. "The Joker is always a gentleman. Allow me to help you out…" He seized her arm and jerked her from the vehicle, dragging her across the pavement. "…and over."

The icy air was split by Marcia's scream as she was thrown over the bridge rail.

"Always a gentleman," he muttered as he turned away. Then he hesitated. "What's this? No more screaming…but no splash." Walking back to the railing he peered down to discover Marcia clinging to a cable. The Joker gripped the gun in his pocket, but after a moment's thought, withdrew his empty hand.

"All in all, my dear," he called down, "I think it would be a rather good joke to leave you there. The police…" Here he paused and cocked his head to the sound of distant sirens. "The police, engrossed in their hot pursuit, will speed past, deaf to any pleas you might be making. Your best hope would be a passing river vessel but…" He shook his head at the rushing water full of spinning ice chunks. "…it's really not the season. Still," he added cheerfully, "I wouldn't give up all hope. Wouldn't it be delightful if the joke were on me after all?"

The sirens grew louder, and he crossed back to the car. The Ferrari sped down the road with the speedometer again wavering above ninety-five. Twenty miles later, the Joker screeched to another stop near a bridge. Tossing a garbage bag from the backseat onto the snowy ground, he walked around the back and set his shoulder against the red metal. It took only one shove to send the sleek vehicle over the steep bank to careen down the icy hillside and smash against a bridge support with a satisfying explosion.

Picking up the bag, the Joker walked across the bridge, reaching the other side just as a modest black sedan approached from the other direction. "You're late," the Joker snapped as he climbed in the passenger's door.

"Sorry," the driver apologized, executing a neat U-turn on the empty road to return the way he had come. "There's construction work up on I-65, and you said not to draw attention…"

"I know what I said," the Joker interrupted, exchanging the fluorescent wig for a ski cap and pulling a black pea coat over his purple suit. "It doesn't matter, I was held up myself. Teller from the bank got noisy."

"You kill her?" the driver asked interestedly.

"Possibly," the Joker said in a bored tone, and found he didn't care.

The rest of the thirty minute drive was made in silence, until the car pulled up behind the Pine Hills amusement park, closed for the winter. The Joker jerked his thumb at the garbage bag in the back. "Run it through the usual channels."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," the driver muttered. A black gloved hand shot out and squeezed the top of his throat. He felt his jawbone shift as he fought for air.

"If you drop so much as a single bill…"

"I know," the driver wheezed desperately.

"One mistake, Mikey. That's all you get. Most people call me generous." The Joker swung out of the car and strode away.

Mikey waited until his employer was safely out of sight before patting his jaw tenderly. "Never thought picking up a dozen donuts could get a guy in so much trouble."

The Joker made his way around the back fence of Pine Hills, taking care to walk along the set of snowmobile tracks that surrounded the place. The watchman looked for lights and kids, not footprints, but it wasn't caution that killed the cat.

He came to the back gate and pulled out his key. Should the watchman ever try to enter the grounds, he would discover his own padlock had been replaced, but usually a look, or at most a tug, convinced him that all was secure. Locking the gate behind him, the Joker made his way through the deepening darkness, past the looming skeleton of the rollercoaster, to the funhouse.

A carnival was perhaps not the wisest choice of hideout for a criminal who dressed as a clown, but perhaps it was the extra element of risk that attracted him. He flicked on his flashlight and made his way through the twisting corridors until he came to the heart of the place – a round room lined with the usual distorted mirrors. Ignoring the reflections that flashed past in his light, he followed the wall until he came to a pile of items which definitely did not belong in the funhouse. A nylon sleeping bag, two strong camping lanterns, a water bottle, canned food, a stack of dog-eared notebooks, and a large makeup kit were neatly arranged in a semi-circle against the wall.

He sat cross legged in the middle of these signs of habitation and turned on the lights. The room flooded with light, blinding beams bouncing to infinity off the mirrors. The Joker picked up a rag and a bottle of makeup remover and began to rub, observing his own movements faithfully reflected in the one true mirror. The white and red disappeared to reveal skin almost as pasty as the paint that had covered it and networked with miniscule scars. Two larger scars ran from each cheekbone to the corners of his mouth, drawing his lips into a permanent, smiling grimace. A lock of greenish gray hair fell over his colorless eyes, and he pushed it away impatiently, still staring intently at his reflection.

_And here I am, paint stripped away, the merest shadow of myself. Like this place. Take away the lights, the music, the smell of gastronomical indulgence, and what remains? Empty, idle potential._

In fury, he snatched up the lantern and rammed its heavy base against the mirror, shattering his sneering face a thousand times. "Amuse myself you tell me!" he shrieked, voice ricocheting through the empty room. "And how can I do that, my _dear_ benefactor, when the police are so pathetically easy to outmaneuver, and the citizens tremble in their beds? Boredom! Boredom is the true plague of the world, the scourge of the race." He fell silent, panting and trembling. When he spoke again it was a low mutter, directed at the broken mirror. "No, there's only one place I can _amuse_ myself. And the time is right, no matter what he says. I _will_ return to Gotham."

------

He sat as usual, enthroned by black leather, watching with contemptuous amusement the man before him.

"For a week now I have been kept in this…" Carlos Morales' face twisted with distaste as he gestured helplessly. "And this is the first time I have so much as glimpsed your face. Do you not think I deserve a little more consideration?"

"Consideration? My dear man…" He wore a wounded expression as he continued, "Have you not been treated with every courtesy? Have I not given you the sanctuary you pled for?"

"Sanctuary, yes. But you call this…water and rags existence…courtesy?"

"You live in the same fashion I do myself. With this exception, of course." He gestured expansively at their surroundings.

"It was not what I expected," Morales muttered.

"If you are dissatisfied, I can always provide a ticket out of the country."

"No." Morales dismissed this idea with an abrupt hand gesture. "I wish to see the end. And if it cannot be done in comfort…" He shrugged. "Así es la vida. But have you made the contact?"

"Oh, yes."

"And she will serve our purpose?"

"Admirably."

Drawing a satisfied breath, Morales leaned back in his chair. "That is something. And I would have something more."

His expression was one of gentle inquiry. "Yes?"

"A name. Come, we have worked to our mutual benefit for many years. Tell me what I should call you."

The pale man behind the desk placed his clasped hands beneath his chin. "You may call me…Mr. Gatsby."

_To be continued…_

**Notes to Reviewers** (_in alphaBATical order_)

**CassandraD:** If you really want the answers to your questions, I'm afraid you're going to have to keep reading! (Isn't that like…the most annoying response in the world?)

**Dot:** Oh good, I'm glad you liked the intrigue in the prologue, that it wasn't too abstract to hold people's interest.

**Gewher:** The prologue was supposed to be mysterious and a little confusing. The section about the Spanish people is part of a story that will be filled in later. And there should be plenty of Bruce/Dick as opposed to Batman/Robin, since Dick isn't anywhere close to becoming a sidekick yet.

**Goat­song: **Thanks! Your screen name intrigues me, what made you pick it?

**IcyWaters:** I will say that your hunch about drug money was spot on. (Not terribly original of me, I admit.) The connection to Gotham began to be explained in this chapter, but it's rather complicated (you should see my character diagram!), so if you want the full explanation you'll just have to…keep reading! (I love saying that…I would probably have made a good puppet tyrant.) And thank you for your review to the last chapter of Nestling. It was extremely helpful.

**Katie:** Thanks for the encouragement! I hope you'll be happy with "where this goes"!

**L Moonshade: **Thank you, thank you, and I hope you won't be disappointed! bites nails nervously This story is a bit more challenging than the last one.

**Nightshade0020:** Yes, well, I'm rather fond of quail eggs, so I _did_ happen to have some uneaten chicken ones… Er. Do you think I have a small obsession with breakfast?

**Ouatic-7: **I think Molly will reappear, but not until much later in the story. She came as a bit of a surprise to me, because she more or less invented herself.

**Pun: **Edge of your seat, huh? Well, much as I hope to keep you there, please don't fall off and hurt yourself!

**Starpossum:** So glad to see you back! What did you name yourself after? Does your name have any connection to Starfire from Teen Titans?

**WolfDaughter:** Oh yeah, foreshadowing rocks. I just hope all the pieces fit together like I think they will when I get to the end!


	3. Possibly Chapter Two

**A/N **I admit it! I watched _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ last night! (Jane Seymour version.) If anyone finds themselves a tad bit confused in the opening paragraphs, that would be why. If you haven't seen the movie, go watch it. It's marvelous.

**Disclaimer** Thank you Batman, and thank you Perry Mason.

**Chapter Two**

_The squeaky wheel gets the grease._

_Colloquial Proverb_

Dick flourished his hand in the air. "Sink me, if it isn't time for the old chin-ups," he declared in what he fondly believed to be a British accent.

Bruce massaged his temples. _I definitely did not get enough sleep last night_. "What was that?"

Dick, alias Sir Percy Blakeney, elucidated, "Up, up with the old chin. You know, that sort of pullin' thing we do every day?"

Bruce pointed an accusing finger. "Alfred's been showing you those cultured movies again."

"It was Master Alfred's idea," Dick conceded haughtily. "But it had a wicked swordfight in it." In his own disgusted voice he added, "But too much kissing. And I didn't understand why they kept talking about a dolphin."

Alfred had entered the gym just in time to overhear Dick's last remark. "I believe you are referring to the _dauphin_, Master Dick, which is what the French used to call their crown prince. When they had one." Alfred shook his head reprovingly. "Ghastly state of affairs across the Channel." After a moment of silent mourning for the French monarchy, he continued, "Master Wayne, Mr. Fox is in the library. He wishes to speak with you on a matter of some importance."

Bruce nodded. "Give me ten minutes to shower and I'll be right with him."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but he seemed to indicate that it was urgent."

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. "You're saying I should skip the shower?"

A pained expression crossed the butler's face. "Yes."

"It _must_ be urgent." Turning to Dick, Bruce assumed his own phony accent. "Right then, old chap. Carry on until you're finished, then stop."

"Sink me," Dick declared, and pulled himself onto the bar.

Bruce followed Alfred to the library where Lucius Fox stood waiting. "Mr. Fox. I apologize for my informal appearance, but Alfred said it was important?"

Fox shook the proffered hand. "I'm afraid it is. A problem has come up with the boy's custody."

Alfred shut the door and came forward as Bruce's smile faded. "Go on."

Fox sighed. "There's no easy way to say this. It has been suggested that you are not a fit guardian for the boy. Social services is considering removing him from your custody."

"What?" Bruce demanded in disbelief. "What do they mean I'm not a fit guardian?"

"You are suspected of burning down your own house last spring," Fox reluctantly pointed out.

Bruce raked his hand through his hair. "But why now? Dick's been living here for months."

Fox folded his arms. "Oh, somebody filed an anonymous complaint. But I'm guessing it won't be too hard to trace the source."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "Earle."

Fox nodded. "Apparently suing the company for unmerited dismissal isn't enough for him."

"So what do we do?"

"The first thing you have to do is get down to Gotham courthouse by two o'clock. There's an informal hearing to decide whether the boy should be immediately removed from your custody."

Bruce glanced at the clock. "But that's less than an hour!"

"And they're not going to wait for you either," Fox warned. "I'll have an attorney ready for you. You can look this over on the way to the courthouse."

Bruce snatched the folder. "I'll look it over right now."

"_After_ you shower, if you please, sir," Alfred said, firmly taking possession of the file. Bruce threw him an exasperated look and ran for the stairs.

The clock of Gotham First Trust Bank read one fifty-five when the car stopped in front of the courthouse. Bruce ran up the cracked marble steps and found Fox and a middle-aged man in a grey suit waiting for him.

"Mr. Wayne, this is Mr. Bennett."

The two men shook hands. "Mr. Bennett, thank you for coming on such short notice."

"I'll be frank with you, Mr. Wayne," Bennett said as they walked rapidly down the corridor. "It doesn't look good. Maybe, if they'd given us time…" He shook his head. "The best advice I can give you is to keep your mouth shut unless directly addressed."

The visible opposition consisted of three: silver-haired Henry Judas, head of Gotham social services, Amanda Waters, their acting counsel, and a frumpy, dark woman that Judas introduced simply as "My colleague, Miss Somerville."

_At least we're evenly matched,_ Bruce thought humorlessly as he, Fox, and Bennett took their seats on the opposite side of the round table.

Everyone stood as Justice Martin Farr entered the room (not in robes, but ordinary business attire). His grandfatherly appearance gave Bruce a spark of hope that just maybe, the judge would listen to both sides of the story. _Not that Bruce Wayne has a side worth listening to._

Ms. Waters opened. "Judge Farr, this case was called to our attention yesterday, when a complaint was filed concerning a child named Richard Grayson. Richard has no known relatives, and, due to the circumstances explained in the petition, he is the legal responsibility of Wayne Enterprises. Recently, a move was made by the company's lawyers to transfer guardianship to the company's owner, Mr. Bruce Wayne. We, however, do not believe that Mr. Wayne is a fit guardian for the boy, and we ask that Richard Grayson be removed from Mr. Wayne's home, at least until a full investigation can be made."

Farr nodded. "Mr. Bennett? What is your response to Ms. Waters' statement?"

"I would like to know on what grounds Ms. Waters claims that Mr. Wayne is an unfit guardian. I would also ask, why is this matter being addressed only now, when Richard Grayson has been under the care of Mr. Wayne for the past four months?"

"An excellent question," the judge agreed. "Ms. Waters?"

"I…" She hesitated, glancing at Judas.

"Our office is overrun," the silver-headed man said frankly. "We are understaffed and under-funded. In the case of Richard Grayson, the child was not a ward of the state. We were unaware of the situation until it was brought to our attention. The point now is that the complaint was made and we believe it has validity."

Waters spoke again. "As for our allegations against Mr. Wayne, our petition cites numerous instances which show that Mr. Wayne not only leads a reckless and irresponsible lifestyle, but that his emotional instability can at times pose a threat not only to himself, but also to others."

"But you cannot bring forward any instance where Mr. Wayne has actually hurt anyone," Bennett argued. "On the contrary, Richard Grayson has done nothing but benefit from his stay at Wayne Manor."

Waters cleared her throat. "Judge Farr, we do not contend that any harm _has_ come to the boy under the guardianship of Mr. Wayne. What we wish to do is prevent any such harm from occurring. As for Mr. Wayne's never having put anyone in harm's way, I think the members of the fire department who dealt with the blaze at Wayne Manor last spring would disagree."

_Ra's would call this the balancing of justice._ Up to this point, Bruce had maintained outward control, but with the pointed jibe about the destruction of his ancestral home, his hands clenched and the pen he'd been toying with cracked. Ink seeped from the mutilated pen onto his fingers, and he unobtrusively slipped his hands beneath the table and pulled out his handkerchief, half listening to Bennett protest that the allegations had never been proved, and that the insurance company had paid in full. _Not that it made any difference to the collective mind of Gotham_. Bruce gingerly inserted the linen wrapped mess into his pocket and looked up to find the silent woman …_What was her name?_... watching him intently. He coolly returned her stare and saw a muscle twitch in her cheek before she looked away.

Bennett was concluding, "I would ask you to keep in mind the disastrous results of the last placement Richard Grayson was given by social services at the request of Wayne Enterprises' legal counsel. In light of that trauma, and the grief of his mother's sudden death, I would ask you to consider what damage uprooting the boy would do, particularly as we begin a season where family is considered important." Bennett folded his hands his front of him, wearing the resigned air of a man who realizes that his best has not been enough.

"Mr. Wayne, do you have anything to add to your counsel's remarks?"

Bruce transferred his gaze from his ink stained fingers to the judge's face. Any resemblance to a benign grandfather had disappeared behind a stern and disapproving expression. _Billionaire playboy strikes again_. Aloud he said, "If your decision is to remove the boy from my custody, then I would ask that he be placed in the care of District Attorney Rachel Dawes. Richard has known Miss Dawes for some time, and she has expressed the desire to care for the boy should the need arise."

Farr nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne, I will keep your recommendation in mind. Does the opposing counsel have any final remarks?"

Waters glanced at Judas, who turned to the other woman. She nodded slightly.

"Obviously the needs of the child are most important here," Judas began. "Therefore, considering that Richard has apparently flourished under the care of Mr. Wayne, and remembering the season, we are willing to offer a compromise. I suggest that a member of the social services be allowed to live at Wayne Manor for a period of two weeks. This person is to be given full access to the house, the boy, and any other persons or places considered pertinent. If at the end of this time, our investigator sees no cause for concern, then we would be willing to drop the matter without a formal hearing."

"An unorthodox but generous offer, Mr. Judas, considering your lack of staff. Do you have someone immediately available for the task?" Farr asked.

"Yes, Miss Somerville recently transferred to our office and does not yet have a regular rotation of duties. She has agreed to the arrangement."

"What do you have to say to this, Mr. Wayne?"

"I…" Bruce hesitated, glancing at Bennett. "The offer is completely unexpected. Could I have a few minutes to confer with my counsel?"

Farr nodded. "Of course. We will resume in ten minutes."

Out in the hall Bennett urged, "Take it, Mr. Wayne. If you can convince Henry Judas to let it rest, you'll save yourself one incredibly messy battle. The board of Wayne Enterprises would also appreciate that."

"I'm sure," Bruce muttered, scowling. "What about you, Mr. Bennett? Do you think I should be allowed to retain custody?"

Bennett shrugged. "My opinion isn't important. As your lawyer, I fight in your corner. And I'm telling you this is the best chance you've got. If this gets into the papers, public opinion could go either way."

"Poor, helpless child in clutches of psychotic billionaire?"

"Something like that."

"What exactly is this woman going to do?" Bruce demanded.

"Interrogate the servants, count the silver, inventory your underwear…Who cares? For what it's worth, Henry Judas has a reputation for being a good guy. If you play by his rules, he'll give you a fair shot. But turn down his offer and they'll wonder what you've got to hide. You could lose the boy _and_ your personal reputation."

Bruce winced. "Yeah." He shook his head. "But I don't understand why. If Judas is as understaffed as he claims, why is he willing to let an able-bodied worker out of the office for two weeks?"

Bennett shrugged again. "Like I said before, he's a good guy. Maybe he wants to make up for what happened to the boy before." He grinned. "But if you ask me, he's just wanting to shift that gal out of the office before she gets comfortable. She looks like a real pain in the…"

Bennett broke off as Fox approached. "We've got a minute left. What's it going to be?"

Bruce shrugged. "Looks like I'm going to have a houseguest. Mr. Bennett thinks it's the best decision."

Fox tossed him a covertly anxious look. "Could be a long two weeks."

"Who knows?" Bennett asked cheerfully. "Maybe all she wants is a vacation. Take her out on the town, let her drive one of your cars…"

Bruce threw up his hands in protest. "Please, let's be reasonable."

Bennett chuckled and opened the door to the conference room. "My client has made his decision."

_To be continued…_

**Notes to Reviewers **(in alphaBATical order):

**CassandraD:** Yup. _The Great Gatsby_ it is. I read it for the first time this summer and enjoyed it. And I think you're totally right about it being an alias Ra's would come up with.

**IcyWaters: **I'm very glad you liked the Joker. I've never worked a villain quite like him before (although he's only one of many firsts for me in this story). And I think I understand what you meant about the scene in the car not going overboard. Minute detail isn't always necessary to get the point across.

**JustCallMeEli:** You think it's visually stimulating? _swoons with happiness_Description is an area of writing that I struggle with, so it's great to hear that I must be improving!

**Mysterious Jedi:** If I had to name a center for the story, it would have to be Bruce. But don't worry, there will be lots and lots of Dick.

**Ouatic-7:** Yeah, I know it was gross. Little boys enjoy that sort of thing.

**Starpossum:** I like your name. It's cute and original. I'm glad you liked the Joker. Like I told IcyWaters, there's some influence from the first movie, but in a lot of ways I'm recreating him to suit my own purposes.

**TheAmazingTecnocolorRingWraith:** I suppose you're right about the reason for the separate BB category. I still don't think it would hurt to have them all filed together, though. And yeah, Christian Bale in a Batsuit…_sighs dreamily_

**TV Chick: **How was your vacation? Mine's about over, school approacheth! (That's a good thing, though.) Glad you're liking the sequel!


	4. Suspected of Being Chapter 3

**A/N** I had The Worst Time writing this chapter. It had to be done, but thank Heaven it's over. I hope my agony produced something tolerable!

**Disclaimer** I do not own Batman. Nor do I own the Kelloggs ® brand. (Not that it in any way enters into this chapter. I just thought I'd make certain we were all clear on the subject.)

**Chapter 3**

_DICK: The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers._

_Henry 6, part 2_

For once, the front door of Wayne Manor slammed open before Alfred could get to it. "Where's Dick?" Bruce demanded.

"On his trip to the Fishtopia Aquarium with his tutor. Is everything all right, sir?"

"The aquarium…I forgot about that. Probably proof that I'm a lousy guardian."

"Despite the circumstances, I thought it better to let him go as planned."

"Better not to upset him before it became necessary," Bruce agreed.

"And has it become necessary?"

"We're going to have a live-in investigator."

"An investigator, sir?" Alfred could not entirely conceal his alarm.

"Someone from social services – a Miss Somerville. She'll be here twenty-four/seven for two weeks. If, in that time, she finds nothing to complain of, they're willing to drop the case."

"I see…And was that our only option?"

"Yes!" Bruce snapped. "You think I asked for this deal?"

There was a small silence, and then Alfred spoke, his usual calm regained. "I'll have a suite prepared at once. What would you like done about the menu?"

"Nothing. They said we were to follow our normal routine as closely as possible. She eats what we eat."

"And what time will Miss Somerville arrive?"

Bruce glanced at his watch. "In precisely fifty-two minutes."

"Fifty-two minutes? Then you'll have to excuse me, sir, I've a lot to do." Alfred disappeared around a corner, then popped back into view. "I suppose the plan is to convince her that we're a nice, normal, well-adjusted family?"

Bruce groaned and put his hands over his face.

"Come now, sir," Alfred said bracingly. "As my old nurse used to say, it's no use wailing that you've lost the lottery until you've bought your ticket."

------

Bruce settled back in the deep leather chair. All around him rose walls of security monitors that could give an almost comprehensive view of the manor and its grounds. But only the row of screens in front of him was lit, providing a complete view of the front drive, porch, and hall of the manor.

A battered grey Chevy appeared on the drive and pulled to stop in front of the house. A valet was immediately at the driver's door, but he was forced to take a quick step backward as it swung open and the person of Miss Somerville, thickly bundled against the winter weather, emerged. She mounted the steps and tilted her head back to examine the gargoyles mounted over the door. Alfred appeared and the two figures vanished from the outside monitors to appear on the inside ones. Bruce watched as the woman struggled out of a small mountain of winter gear, and followed her progress through the halls as she trailed after Alfred. The butler left her standing alone in a room where she remained motionless, her back to Bruce's view.

"Master Wayne?"

Bruce turned from his silent scrutiny to face his faithful butler.

"She's waiting for you in the green room, sir."

"I know." Bruce waved a hand at the lit screens. "What's your first impression?"

Alfred frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know, sir. She's a difficult woman to read. Of course, I was only with her a few minutes."

"She's going to be a problem," Bruce predicted grimly.

"Only if we let her become one," Alfred insisted. "And toward preventing that end, you had better go down and begin showing her what a nice, normal family life we all lead."

"Right, because we have about as much chance of doing that as of making Lady Liberty disappear from New York Harbor."

"It's happened before, sir." Alfred permitted himself a faint smile. "They do it with mirrors."

The green room was very obviously a lady's room. Decorated in shades of green and cream, its soft charm was augmented by soothing watercolors and fragile furniture. But if delicate was the word to describe the room, it was certainly not the word for the uninvited guest. Dressed in an ill-fitting navy suit, her hair commandeered into a severe bun, and her mouth held in a prim line, the sturdy figure of the social worker was about as attractive as a toad with acne.

_Here we go_. Bruce strode forward, pasting on a smile usually reserved for the upper echelons of Gotham society. "Miss Somerville, I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"How do you do, Mr. Wayne?" she said stiffly.

They extended their hands at the same time – he his right and she her left. There was a staring match, so brief it was almost imagined, and then he switched with a light laugh. "I'm afraid we right-handed people forget the whole world isn't like us. Did you have to use one of those special desks in school?"

"No," she snapped, deepening her glower.

He refused to be cowed. "I would offer a tour, but dinner's in an hour."

She glared at him over the wire rims of her glasses. "Don't you think, Mr. Wayne, that I ought to be introduced to Richard?"

Bruce was stunned by the violence of his urge to rip the woman limb from limb. Keeping the smile on his face with a tremendous effort of will he ground out, "I'm afraid Richard is on a field trip with his tutor. To the aquarium."

"How nice," she murmured, managing to convey the impression that she thought it was anything but. "And during what hours does he usually study?"

"One to four. We've found his focus is best during that time."

"Mmm."

Bruce hadn't known one small sound could be so ominous. And then, to his dismay, he heard the clatter of feet in the hall. "Hey, Bruce!"

_Alfred, where are you?_

"Apparently the field trip is over." Somerville walked to the door and pulled it open. Alfred was attempting to guide a protesting Dick away down the hall. "Mr. Pennyworth!" With great reluctance, Alfred stopped and turned. "Hadn't you better introduce me?" the social worker demanded.

Alfred gave in gracefully. "Miss Somerville, this is Richard Grayson. Master Dick, this is Miss Somerville."

Something which was probably intended for a smile cracked the contours of the woman's face. "Hello, Richard."

"Hi," he responded uncertainly. And then, with eight-year-old frankness, he blurted out, "Why are you staying with us?"

Her contorted mouth stretched farther. "I'm from social services. I'm here to check up on you."

Dick froze, staring up at her, and Bruce moved to intervene. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" Laying a firm hand on Dick's shoulder he pulled his ward into the nearest room and shut the door.

"Why is she here?" Dick demanded. "I haven't done anything, have I?" He sounded half frightened, half belligerent.

"You haven't done anything," Bruce assured him. "It's me she's here to check up on."

"You?" Dick's eyes grew huge. "Does she know…"

"No," Bruce cut him off. "Social services wants to make sure I'm giving you a good home, that's all."

Dick scowled. "They never checked to make sure the last place was giving me a good home. And why is she staying? I can just _tell_ her."

"It's not quite that simple. Social services needs to have testimony from someone who…"

Dick interrupted, in a hard, accusing voice. "They're going to take me away, aren't they?"

"Only if they find something that makes them think this isn't the best place for you," Bruce hedged.

Dick stared at him, as tense as if her were expecting a blow. "You _said_ I could stay as long as I wanted."

"And I'll do everything in my power to make certain you can." _Am I lying?_

Either Dick sensed his guardian's private reservations, or he had misgivings of his own. Betrayal flickered across the thin face. "I know this isn't the best place for me. The best place is with my mom…" He hesitated, his breath coming fast. "And she's dead!" he shouted, and ran from the room.

Bruce followed, just in time to see his ward run headlong into the drab figure of the social worker. Dick shoved past her without a word and sped up the stairs.

She raised her eyebrows and, in a voice that made Bruce want to strangle her, asked, "Trouble, Mr. Wayne?"

He glared at her. "The boy just found out he might be taken from his home. I suppose you expected him to celebrate?"

Alfred silently appeared behind the woman, his face a warning. Without another word, Bruce turned back into the library and shut the door. Firmly.

------

Dinner was awkward.

Somerville was five minutes late, having, as she minutely explained, gotten lost between her room and the dining room. "Perhaps you should consider printing small, complimentary guest maps, Mr. Wayne."

Had it come from almost anyone else on the planet, Bruce would have interpreted the remark as a joke. As it was, he found himself stuck between an apology and a comeback about GPS systems, and decided to switch topics entirely. "How are you liking Gotham, Miss Somerville? I understand you arrived only a short time ago."

"Yes. I'm afraid I find it absolutely as ghastly as I did the last time."

_Lady Sunshine she's not_. "This isn't your first stay in the city?'

"No, I did an internship here as an undergraduate. That's when I first became acquainted with Mr. Judas."

Good guy or not, Judas was not on Bruce's top ten list. "Well, I hope that your accommodations are not classed with the rest of Gotham. Are you finding your room comfortable?"

She stabbed her fork into her macaroni and cheese. "It is a trifle chilly."

Bruce managed a concerned frown. "The entire house is kept at seventy degrees, but I'll have someone check your room immediately. Perhaps a vent is malfunctioning." The silence droned on, until Bruce, grasping at straws, exclaimed, "There's at least one good thing to be said for the weather. We've got unbeatable ski slopes this year."

"I do not see how cavorting about in these arctic temperatures could possibly be conducive to anyone's health."

Bruce, examining the bulky, hideous, and probably scratchy sweater she wore, privately agreed. _No, I'm certain you can't._ Before he could think of a non-temperature related subject, she took the conversational ball into her own hands.

"Tell me, Richard, what are you studying with your tutor?"

Dick, who had been crunching with deliberate noise through his carrot sticks, shrugged and gulped. "School stuff."

"Math?" The blonde head nodded. "Reading?" Nod. "Science?" Nod. "What are you learning in science?"

There was a pause. "Gravity," he muttered angrily.

"Ah, Mr. Newton's apple." Dick gave her a blank look. "No? Dropping various objects from the leaning tower of Pisa?" she hazarded. He shook his head and licked the cheese sauce off his fork. "What, exactly, have you learned about gravity?" she demanded imperiously.

"The acceleration of Earth's gravity is nine point eight meters per second squared." he replied, and stabbed his spoon into his silver dessert bowl.

_That's my boy._ Bruce felt himself starting to smirk, but it was wiped off by Dick's next words.

"You're not very smart, are you?"

"_Richard!_" Bruce snapped before Somerville could get her mouth open. "Apologize."

There was a painful silence while Richard screeched his spoon across the bottom of his bowl. He stood up and without looking at anyone mumbled, "I'm sorry…" He turned and walked out of the dining room, muttering under his breath, "…that you're stupid."

Bruce winced and, darting a look in the social worker's direction, saw that she also had heard the end of the apology. "Believe it or not, Miss Somerville, he doesn't usually act like this."

She gave another one of her sickly little smiles. "Mr. Wayne, you do understand that you're supposed to be impressing me?" Without another word, she stood and left.

------

"That might have gone better." Alfred seated himself on the far side of his desk.

The billionaire didn't look away from his computer screen. "You're telling me. Less than twenty-four hours and I already want to murder her. Maybe a little background check will give me a legal reason to."

"Investigating the investigator?"

"Her presence here is just a little too convenient…for somebody."

"Do you know," Alfred said slowly, "I get the feeling that she's purposely attempting to make herself disagreeable."

"Alfred…harpies don't have to _try_. It just comes naturally."

"No doubt I imagined that deliberate air behind her conversation at dinner."

Bruce finally looked away from the computer. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Alfred sighed. "I don't know…I confess I'm so dismayed that I don't quite know what I think about anything."

Bruce stared down at his keyboard. "Did I do the right thing to let her come?"

"As you said, sir, there was no other choice."

"None that would let Dick stay."

Alfred stared distantly at nothing in particular. "I would be greatly grieved to see him go."

Bruce waited until the butler met his eyes. "You once told me it had to be bigger than that."

"As I recall, I made that specific remark after you endangered dozens of lives and damaged hundreds of thousands of dollars in public property. The situation now is somewhat different."

"Is it really?" Bruce pushed himself away from the desk and walked to the other half of the room, where the piano sat gleaming. He gently brushed his fingers across the smooth ivory. "How many lives is Batman worth, Alfred?"

"There's no way to answer that, Master Wayne. But it's a choice you may one day have to face."

Bruce turned to look at him. "Choice?"

"Between the life that you can't see…and the one that you can."

------

Lieutenant Gordon sat wearily at his desk. It had been a very bad day. A drunk driving accident down on fiftieth had left two teens dead and another in critical condition. A bank robbery on the south side had left its vaults a hundred thousand poorer and the police without leads. Not to mention the day's usual quota of assaults, stick-ups, and…

"Lieutenant Gordon?" The timid voice of his sergeant broke through Gordon's glum reverie.

"Yes?" he snapped.

"A car bomb, sir, vice president of the Gladelands Corporation."

Gordon massaged the bridge of his nose. "He dead?"

"No…his chauffeur was bringing the car around."

"I hope he got hazard pay."

"Yes, sir. We found this tacked up near the parking spot."

Gordon accepted the clear evidence bag and stared at the brightly colored playing card. "Well whattaya know? Then again, who else would start the holidays with such a bang?."

_To be continued…_

**A/N **Sorry that I don't have individual responses up for the reviews. I'll try to add them on tomorrow, but I wanted to post this tonight, so I could keep my five day update promise 8) Thanks very much to all who reviewed the last chapter!


	5. 4 or 5? YOU decide

**A/N** Huge, huge apology for the terrible delay. But chapter first and explanations later, yes?

**Disclaimer** I do not own Batman. I did not invent the band-aid. I am not the mother of a four-year-old.

**Chapter Four**

_Then Frodo's heart flamed within him, and without thinking what he did, whether it was folly or despair or courage, he took the Phial in his left hand, and with his right hand drew his sword._

_- The Two Towers_

Dick deliberately folded the corner of his _National Geographic_ back and forth, running his fingernail over the crease until the glossy yellow corner fell off into his hand. The small act of destruction was the only sign of his seething anger that he would allow himself. Across the waiting room, a boy of about four began to shriek as his mother pulled him toward a smiling dental assistant. Dick didn't even flinch when a yellow building block sailed through the air and bounced off his forehead.

"Richard!" Miss Somerville's voice snapped through the stuffy air, as if it was _his _fault some brat had nailed him. "Richard, you're bleeding."

Dick brushed a finger above his left eye and stared blankly at the sticky redness. Heaving her hefty form off the padded bench, Miss Somerville tossed a threatening, _stay there_, look at her young charge and trudged over to the receptionist's desk. "Would it be possible to procure an ice pack?"

Behind the closed office door, Dick's would-be assailant was screaming bloody murder at some frazzled dentist. Dick smiled grimly, ignoring the blood that trickled down the bridge of his nose. _Bite his fingers off, kid_.

Miss Somerville returned, trailed by a worried nurse. "I'm so sorry. We've never had such an accident before…We'll certainly speak to the child's mother."

"What for?" Somerville inquired acidly. "She obviously can't control her son. You would do better to remove hard edged projectiles from your play area."

The nurse retreated behind her cotton balls and peroxide and made a big show of dabbing Dick's eye. "This will sting, sweetie."

Dick glared at her and didn't flinch anymore than when the block had come sailing at his eyes. The nurse, clutching her bloodied cotton balls, retreated before the double threat. She paused to whisper to the receptionist what a shame it was how many dreadful women had such beautiful children.

Dick stared at the dead and de-tusked elephant on the magazine cover, hating his luck, hating his life.

_Earlier that day…_

Dick was poking listlessly at his Mickey Mouse pancake when Bruce entered the kitchen, several hours earlier than normal and dressed to reassure stockholders of his business acumen. "Good morning Dick, Alfred, Miss Somerville," he greeted briskly.

Alfred beamed. "Good morning, Master Wayne. Shall I prepare you some breakfast?"

"Just juice," Bruce said hastily. "I'm having a car brought around in five minutes. The meeting won't be over until mid-afternoon, so don't expect me for lunch."

"Very good, sir," Alfred agreed, producing the orange juice.

"And don't forget about Dick's dentist appointment at eleven," Bruce added, in a tone as responsible as his suit.

Alfred frowned. "I beg your pardon, sir, I thought the appointment was for tomorrow?"

"I moved it up a day, because Miss Tracy requested all of Thursday for a trip to the natural science…" Bruce trailed off. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No, sir."

"Oh." There was a pause in which both men were painfully aware of that silent presence by the window. "Can't you take him?"

"It's the Gotham Gardening Society's winter orchid festival. I am the chairman," Alfred said delicately.

"Oh, yes. You certainly can't miss that. Well, I suppose I'll just call…"

A syrupy voice offered, "I would happy to escort Richard to the dentist."

Bruce managed to look at her without meeting her eyes. "Er…that's very kind, but I certainly can't expect you to…"

Somerville smiled. Ominously. "Nonsense. It would be my pleasure."

- - - - - -

Dick ripped the Band-aid off his forehead and stuck it on the elephant's mutilated face.

"Latex allergy, Mr. Grayson?" Miss Somerville asked sarcastically.

Not entirely certain as to the definition of latex, Dick kept his eyes stubbornly down. Across the room, the volume of the screams increased as the office door opened and the exhausted mother maneuvered her son past the receptionist's desk to the outside door. Dick turned to watch out the window as they crossed the parking lot to the next door bank. The woman was fumbling for the key to her dark green minivan when the machine gun fire erupted.

Three men in black burst out of the bank, spraying bullets across the parking lot. The woman from the dentist's office dropped down by the tire, clutching her son, mouth opened in a scream Dick could barely hear.

When he thought about it afterward, he couldn't remember deciding to move or, in fact, thinking at all. He simply heard the ding of the bell above the door as he slammed it open, and felt his sneakers splashing through slush as he tore across the parking lot. Falling to his knees beside the screaming mother, he snatched the keys from her shaking grip and started hitting buttons on the black key pad. The van locks clicked and Dick pulled the sliding door back. "Get in!" he whispered desperately, tugging on her arm. "You have to get in!"

Her panic-blind eyes managed a moment of focus. She leaned toward the carpeted interior. But as she pulled herself up, her grip on the little boy loosened, and he jerked away, his complimentary toothbrush waving triumphantly as he raced toward the bank. Dick ran too.

He was never sure which came first – the shots or the force slamming into him, driving him to the icy ground and smacking the breath out of him. Everything was quiet. Dick could hear nothing but his own wheezing breath and the gasps of whoever lay on top of him. And then there were footsteps in the slush, and the crushing weight was suddenly lifted from his back. He squinted up in dazed surprise to see Miss Somerville on her knees, painfully stretching up to where a black glove crushed her elbow.

She was whimpering. "Don't hurt us. Please. Don't hurt us."

Dick looked up and up at a figure all in black, whose ghastly white countenance leered back down at him. "Don't worry, lady. I love kids."

If he could just have squeezed a little more air into his lungs, Dick thought he could have killed him.

"Hey, lady, can you give us a ride?"

- - - - - -

Alfred held out Bruce's coat. "Which car shall I have sent around for her, sir?"

Bruce looked blank. "Car?"

"Yes. For Miss Somerville to drive Master Dick to the dentist."

Bruce slid his arms into the silk lining, grumbling. "Do I have to?"

"Unless you want Master Dick riding in an ill-heated, rusty contraption with failing brakes."

The billionaire sighed in resignation. "I see your point. Can't she just go in the limo with a driver?"

Alfred grimaced. "Miss Somerville prefers to drive herself."

"Fine," Bruce muttered grudgingly. "She can drive the…"

- - - - - -

Somerville pointed a shaking hand across the lot to where the midnight blue Jaguar XKR stood gleaming in the pale sunlight. Her captor laughed gleefully. "Now that's what I'm talking about. Hey, Boss!" he called over his shoulder. "We got a ride!"

"How marvelous."

Dick hadn't noticed the approach of the other man until the smooth voice sounded over his head. He jerked convulsively and stared up, fury melting into choking terror as a white, white face and a red, red mouth followed him into the darkness.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** The mysterious but unexciting explanation for the hideous delay is that I moved back to school (and was idiot enough to think I could keep on schedule with updating while it happened). Between the new job, 17 credit hours, screenwriting class, and writer's block, I've been racing like the proverbial headless chicken. So once again, mega apologies and hopefully updates will be somewhat consistent from here on out. If there's a delay, just know it's been rough week in screenwriting 8)

**Notes to Reviewers** I reviewed policy on "no interactive entries" and decided it would be better if I posted responses to reviews on a separate site. Henceforth, responses to reviewers may be found at w w w . m y o w n j o u r n a l . c o m (minus the spaces). Search for username Philippa (I'm the only one on the site.) I'm sorry I can't make it appear as a link, but document manager puts it in the preview but won't actually display. Hopefully I will figure out the problem for next chapter.

Responses to Chapter 2 (or 3, depending on your point of view) are up. Responses to Chapter 4 will be coming shortly. But I need sleep.


	6. Yup, it's a chapter all right

**A/N** Update time! Hooray!

**Disclaimer** I don't own Batman. I can't remember whether I've thanked the Hardy Boys yet, but if I haven't, my elementary school notion of the criminal element was due almost entirely to them. Not to mention that Frank was the love of my life.

**Chapter 5**

_Whenever I feel afraid,  
__I hold my head erect  
__and whistle a happy tune,  
__so no one will suspect  
__I'm afraid!_

_-The King and I_

If there was one aspect of Gotham that Cecilia Somerville hated more than anything else, it was the cold. It depressed her, it made her irritable, and it made it impossible for her to be warm without wearing at least three layers. So even as she hurled her body toward the racing Richard, she mentally braced for the feel of icy slush seeping through her khaki pants and thermal underwear. The slush seeped. And it continued to seep as the bank robber/mime grabbed her arm and jerked her upward.

Cecilia whimpered, twisting her face in pain while taking in the two other mimes with automatics, the approaching clown, the bleeding body of the finally quiet four-year-old. Richard remained flat on the ground, wheezing, but he was struggling to lift his head, and Cecilia glimpsed his eyes still full of uncontrollable fury. _Don't say anything. Please, don't say anything._

"Hey, lady, can you give us a ride?" the goon with the vise grip on her arm demanded.

She pointed an appropriately shaky hand at the sports car she'd parked safely away from all other vehicles, not wanting to risk a scratch on Bruce Wayne's perfect paint job. _Forget the paint job…he'll be lucky to have a car._

"Hey, Boss! We got a ride!" her captor called, and the clown walked toward them.

"How marvelous," he purred, his colorless eyes flicking over Cecilia to rest on the small boy by her feet.

Richard gave a tortured moan and dropped back to the ground, his breath audibly tight and fast. _He's going into shock_. The goon released her arm and wrenched her purse off her shoulder. Cecilia latched onto Richard's rigid form. _Just take the keys and go_.

"Her" mime snatched the keys from the jumble of pens and tissues. "Let's go." He hit the unlock and remote start buttons, and Cecilia heard the engine purr to life.

"Wait," the clown cautioned. "Don't forget the insurance."

Cecilia refused to relinquish her grip on Richard as she was dragged to her feet. The thought of begging them to let the boy go crossed her mind, _but they'd just as soon dump me and take him._

And then somebody was screaming again. "Timmy!" The harried mother from the waiting room was hurling herself toward the body of her son, straight into the path of the escaping robbers. Cecilia closed her eyes as the bullets exploded.

- - - - - -

Alfred was carrying an extremely rare _mimosa orchideum_ through the lobby of the Imperial Hotel when he caught sight of the television in the corner.

…_the criminal popularly known as the Joker has returned to Gotham City,_ the blond anchor woman announced. _This morning, along with three armed accomplices, the Joker robbed a branch of the Gotham Trust Bank on 86th and North, next to a popular center for pediatrics. _The screen switched to a close up of a bank with its windows smashed._ Leaving six dead and nearly a dozen wounded, the Joker escaped with two hundred thousand dollars in cash and two hostages – a woman and a small boy. He was last seen in a blue Jaguar XKR. If you have any information regarding…_

Alfred didn't wait for the tip line number. Shoving the potted orchid into the hands of a convenient bellboy, he strode to the registration desk and snatched up the phone, ignoring the clerk's protests. "Hello? Yes. Have Miss Somerville and Master Dick returned from town?"

- - - - - -

The room was pure concrete and bitterly cold. Cecilia shoved her gloved hands into her pockets and stomped her feet which were growing numb, despite two layers of socks and insulated boots. Halfway across the room, Richard crouched against the wall, arms around his knees, scowling at the floor.

The clown and his minions had shoved them into the Jag and taken off, wheels screaming like a kid on her first roller coaster. However, Cecilia figured it had been barely five blocks before the car swerved into an alley, and straight up a ramp into a semi. After a drive in a total darkness that her watch declared lasted only twenty minutes, the truck had stopped. The back opened and the Jag rolled backward into a machine shop. Without futher ado, Cecilia and the half-conscious Richard had been shoved into their current prison. Once they were alone, Richard had recovered almost immediately, but he remained silent and sullen, huddled against the wall.

Cecilia looked at the bright red sweatshirt he wore, and sighed inwardly. Although she had merely unbuttoned her coat in the waiting room, Richard had removed his. Shrugging out of her thick black coat, she dropped it over his knees. "Put it on."

He drew his knees more tightly to his chest. "No thank you."

Cecilia dropped to a crouch in front of him and grasped his chin so that he was forced to meet her eyes. "Richard, you will do exactly as I tell you or you will probably die. Do you understand?" She dropped her hand but continued to hold his gaze until he nodded and reached for the coat. When he had been swallowed in the oversized garment, she held out a commanding hand. "Walk with me. We need to keep warm."

Richard obediently allowed her to pull him to his feet and they began to trudge around the windowless room – sixteen steps down, seven across, sixteen back.

"When they come back…" she paused, but Richard apparently felt no need to ask who "they" were. "…act afraid." She allowed the boy to throw her a look of absolute contempt before continuing, "If your enemies think you are too afraid to think, they might give you a chance to escape. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"We don't need to escape."

Cecilia blinked. "You like it here?"

"Don't be stupid," he jeered. "Someone will rescue us."

"Possibly," she agreed coolly. "I'm certain the police will do their best."

"Not the police. Just someone."

"No doubt Mr. Wayne will also be expending his considerable resources."

Richard tucked his hands beneath his arms. "Can I sit down?"

"For a few minutes," she relented.

The boy returned to his place by the wall. "Someone _will_ rescue us," he muttered and buried his face against his knees. "I think."

- - - - - -

The receptionist with a bun that looked like a blond bird's nest stuck her head in the door. "Lieutenant, there's a call for you on line one."

Gordon hit a button on the remote, and the Joker's leering face froze on the screen. "Lucille, I told you I'm not available."

"Yes, sir. But I think you'll want to take this one."

Muttering under his breath, Gordon snatched up the receiver, expecting to hear the angry tones of the commissioner, or the frantic ones of the mayor. But instead, an urbane voice inquired, "Lieutenant Gordon? This is Bruce Wayne."

"Mr. Wayne? What can I do for you?"

"Do you know the identities of the hostages taken in the bank robbery this morning?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. Just because the man was a heavy donator to police charity funds, he didn't have the right to know everything. "Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid that's privileged information. Now, if you'll excuse me, we are investigating a robbery and…"

"Lieutenant, I believe I know the identities of the hostages."

Gordon froze, opened his mouth, shut it, stared at the receiver in his hand. "Mr. Wayne?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes?"

"Where are you?"

"In my car, about five minutes from the police station."

"Could you pick me up? I think we better talk in person."

Gordon hung up the phone. He was pretty sure his line was safe, but in Gotham, you never knew.

- - - - - -

A key scraped in the lock, and one of the clown's goons – dressed in street clothes and minus his white paint – entered. "Out," he demanded, gesturing with his gun.

Cecilia grabbed Richard's shoulder and held him close as they scuttled past the watchful eyes into the main part of the warehouse. The truck was still there. So were their kidnapers. The Joker was the only one still in costume, _but guns shot by ordinary men kill just as well as ones held by circus freaks_.

The head freak began speaking. "I hope you have enjoyed your stay with us. I realize the accommodations were a trifle…crude…but I find that rarely matters when there is a true spirit of hospitality. Would you agree with me?"

As they had left the room, Richard's shoulder beneath her hand had been tense, as if poised for action. But the moment the clown started speaking, he seemed to shrivel, almost collapsing against her side, and Cecilia felt his slight form trembling. _Coulrophobia_. She could have kicked herself for not figuring it out before. She slipped her arm all the way around the boy's shoulders, keeping him upright. The clown continued, "But even the best of house parties must come to an end, and I am very much afraid that the time has come for you to leave us."

Cecilia's grip on Richard tightened as she mentally calculated the leap to the nearest gun. _They let us see their faces_. "Please, don't hurt us!" _They're not going to let us go._

"Of course not, my dear," the clown said soothingly. "I just need you to do some favors for me, and then you can drive home to your dinner. Can you do that?"

She nodded. _I hate books where they don't let you choose your own adventure._

"Listen carefully. You will get into your car, and Mikey here," he laid a companionable hand on the shoulder of the nearest goon, "will drive the truck to a special place. He will push your car out of the truck and drive away. You will wait in the car for fifteen minutes. At the end of those minutes you will take a light and flash it out the driver's window three times. Am I making myself clear?" She nodded, a little frantically. "Good. After that, you will wait another fifteen minutes and then repeat the three flashes. Wait five more minutes, and then you may start the car and…oop!" His black gloved hands gestured like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "You drive away, safe and…warm. Understood?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His red mouth grimaced. "Such a dear little boy." He reached out to playfully ruffle Richard's hair.

And Richard was sick. All over the clown's shiny red shoes.

- - - - - -

To the right, there were nothing but acres of scrawny stumps. On the other hand, the left was enlivened by acres of scrawny stumps and a large shack. It was hard to be certain in the fading winter sunlight, but Cecilia thought they were in the middle of a Christmas tree farm – denuded in honor of the upcoming holidays. In the distance, she could still hear the diesel roar of the semi as it sped away.

"Hey." It was Richard's first voluntary word of the day, and Cecilia turned in surprise. "What happened to that kid…in the parking lot?" he asked, staring out the windshield.

"He was shot," Cecilia answered, studying at his darkening profile.

"Did he die?"

"I don't know."

Fifteen minutes later, almost no light was left in the sky. Cecilia picked up the cheap plastic flashlight and pressed its head against the window. She rapidly flipped the switch, sending three short bursts of light toward the shack. There was no visible response. _Time to move._

She pushed the button on the dashboard to ensure that the interior lights wouldn't go on when the door opened. "Richard," she addressed her passenger. His nearly invisible face turned toward her. "You need to get out of this car. I want you to open your door slowly and push it just as much as you need to get out. Do not let the door shut behind you. Crawl as fast as you can without making noise straight ahead, into the stumps. Keep going until you can just barely see the car. And no matter what happens, stay hidden and quiet. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I'll try to find you, but if I can't, I want you to follow the road until you come out of the trees. Walk toward the lights," she pointed to where the filthy glow of Gotham lit the northern sky, "until you come to a house or a gas station. A gas station would be better. Do not let anyone pick you up on the road. Go inside the station and ask if you can use the phone. Say that you were hunting for a Christmas tree with your aunt and that you got lost. Ask if you can use the phone to call home. Do you know the number for Mr. Wayne's house?"

"Yes," he said firmly, and recited it.

"Good. Do not tell anyone the truth. Don't even say it over the phone. Just ask someone to come and pick you up. And don't call the police."

Cecilia made him repeat the directions, and when he got them right, she reached over and carefully opened his door. Richard immediately slipped out into the snow, her long coat trailing behind him. Cecilia was relieved to see how quickly he disappeared into the darkness.

Fifteen minutes later, she repeated the routine with the flashlight. After waiting a moment to be certain that there was no response from the shack, she pulled the keys from the ignition and crawled out the passenger door.

She kept to what she guessed was Richard's track, but the darkness made it hard to be sure. When she was about as far from the Jag as she guessed she had been in parking lot that morning, she stopped and pulled the keys from her pants pocket. Her index finger caressed the remote start button. _If I've guessed wrong, I'm going to feel really, really stupid._

The luminous dial on her watch said five minutes had passed since her flashlight signal. She took a quiet breath and pressed the button.

**A/N** Huge THANK YOU! to all reviewers who stuck with me through the long delay, and welcome to all new readers! Every single one of your notes was deeply appreciated. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter!

Hopefully, there is now a link in my profile to my responses to reviews. If it is not there, you can find responses by going to

w w w . m y o w n j o u r n a l . c o m and searching for philippa.

(Responses to chapters 4 & 5 are there! I'm caught up!) 


	7. There is no chapter

**A/N **Mmm…nothing.

**Disclaimer**Me own Batman no.

**Acknowledgment **I would like to thank my Mother Goose tapes for their formative influence on my young psyche, and my father, for enduring their obnoxious interpretations of animal personalities.

**Chapter 6**

_My mother used to say that there are no strangers, only friends you haven't met yet. She's now in a maximum security twilight home in Australia._

_- __Dame Edna Everage_

For a moment, nothing happened. Then she heard the engine hum to life and the headlights blinked on. Cecilia smacked her forehead with her gloved palm and immediately regretted it as filthy snow crystals stuck to her already freezing skin. _It's official. Gentlemen, let it not be forgotten that I am an…_ The music was so light and tinkling that at first she thought she imagined it. _I know this tune…something about a cobbler…_

…_the monkey chased the weasel._

_The monkey said 'twas all in fun…_

She threw her arms over her head as the Jaguar erupted in a brilliant ball of flame.

- - - - - -

_Earlier that afternoon…_

As soon as Gordon shut his door, the car purred away from the curb, barely causing a ripple in the stream of traffic as it merged. Gordon turned his head to examine the man sitting by the far door – a man who was a far cry from the frightened child he remembered from the police station all those years ago. Bruce Wayne was a model of relaxed posture, every styled hair in place, but there was a strain around his eyes and the corners of his mouth that belied his calm. Gordon cast a glance at the elderly driver. "Can we talk here?"

Wayne followed the lieutenant's gaze and permitted the shadow of smile to flicker across his face. "Don't worry. Alfred is more trustworthy than I am."

Gordon slumped down against leather seat and fixed a vague stare out Wayne's window. "So, Mr. Wayne, what do you know?"

There was no apparent change in the billionaire's demeanor as he replied evenly, "I believe the boy taken is my ward, Richard Grayson."

Gordon let out a long, slow breath. "Are you sure?"

"He had a dental appointment this morning at the clinic next to the bank. He was escorted by…his case worker, a Miss Somerville."

The hesitation was slight, but Gordon caught it and filed it away for future reference. Aloud he said, "The kidnapers dumped the woman's purse in the parking lot and left her ID. Cecilia Somerville, address in Miami. We hadn't been able to reach anyone there or find her connections here."

"Miss Somerville is new to Gotham. She's actually staying with us just now."

Gordon's eyes suddenly lost their vague expression, but Wayne's face gave away nothing. "I see. Mr. Wayne, as the boy's guardian, you have the right to know that we have received a message from the Joker. He promises that as long as there is no attempt to apprehend him, the hostages will remain safe. In fact, he's promised to release them by the end of the day."

The skepticism in Gordon's voice was evident, and Wayne's eyes narrowed. "What are the chances of that happening?"

The shoulders in the wrinkled uniform shrugged. "We can trace this guy to hostage situations in three other parts of the country, and none of them turned out well. But on the other hand, he's never contacted the authorities before. So maybe he means what he says."

"No demand for a ransom?"

"No. The boy wasn't taken because he belongs to you, Mr. Wayne. Chances are, the kidnapers won't even know who he is unless he or Miss Somerville tell them. We'll keep it out of the media as long as we can."

"Then you don't think I should try to contact this…Joker and offer a ransom?"

Gordon shook his head emphatically. "No. I…there's another complication."

"What's that?"

"The Joker wants the Batman to come and collect the hostages."

- - - - - -

"Lieutenant Gordon reposes a lot of trust in you, sir."

"Because he advised me to leave the matter entirely in…my hands?"

"You should share his confidence. You will bring him back, sir."

The phone rang and Bruce grabbed it. A moment later, he hung it up and reached for his cowl. "The directions."

"Excellent. Shall I prepare a late supper?"

The chill eyes passed over Alfred, looking through him. "Don't expect anything."

- - - - - -

The heat from the blast washed over her back in wave after comforting wave. It was the first real warmth she'd felt since leaving Wayne Manor that morning, and Cecilia couldn't resist a small smile in appreciation of the irony as she lifted her head to survey the wreckage. Bits of glowing debris littered the ground between her and the flaming body of the car. _I love it when I'm right._

A different roar sounded over the crackling of the fire, and Cecilia put her head back down as a white sedan pulled around the corner of the shack and raced off down the track. As soon as the car was out of sight, Cecilia sat up and stared down at her soaked front. The heat had turned snow to slush for a good fifty foot radius around the car. _Hurray for hypothermia_. A second explosion split the air and she threw herself back to the ground as the shack crumbled in flames.

"I guess that means we have the place to ourselves." She stood and began to slog through the field of stumps. "Richard!" His small form appeared almost immediately, not as far away as it should have been, but out of the ring of melted snow. Cecilia eyed his dry form enviously. "Did you like the fire works? Maybe we should have a wiener roast to round out the evening."

"Your sweater is burning," Richard informed her calmly.

She turned her neck and got a nose full of acrid smoke. Coughing, she dropped to the ground and heard the sizzle as the melting snow put out her smoldering sweater and soaked through to her skin.

Richard watched her unsympathetically. "I could have smacked it out for you."

"And burn a hole in those five hundred dollar gloves? Besides, that would have been the smart thing to do, and I'm not very smart, remember?" If the boy was embarrassed, the flickering flame light didn't show it. Cecilia picked herself up and glared down at him. "Why did you run out there, anyway?"

"None of your business."

"Oh no? Then it's obviously also none of my business that I'm standing in the middle of nowhere, soaked and freezing, while our only means of transportation does its part to ruin the ozone layer."

"You didn't have to come after me."

"Somebody had to keep you from getting your head blown off."

"Well somebody had to try to help that mom, too!"

Cecilia took a deep breath. And then another. "I lost my temper just now. I apologize."

The boy kicked at the snow. "Whatever."

Cecilia was about to suggest that they move closer to the enticing warmth of the wreckage when the sound of an engine caused her to jerk Richard to the ground. "What is it, a tank?" she muttered as the roar of the vehicle grew incredibly loud. Between her filthy glasses and the darkness it was impossible to distinguish the details of the vehicle, other than that it was black and bulky.

But it took more than smudged lenses to explain the next part of the apparition. The vehicle screamed to a halt and he…it…a shadow emerged, tall and lightless and horned. _I think he forgot his pitchfork._

"Hey!" Before Cecilia could react, Richard had scrambled to his feet and was running headlong toward the creature.

She ran desperately after him, vaguely aware that the shadow had seen them, was coming toward them…

_Gotcha_. Her hand closed over Richard's forearm and she jerked the boy behind her, trying to back away from the approaching shadow. There was a blur of movement and then…

- - - - - -

"Are you all right?" Bruce rasped, gripping his ward by the shoulders and dangling the boy in midair.

"Yeah! But the car blew up."

"I noticed. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yup." Dick wiggled impatiently and Bruce set his feet back on the ground. "They didn't do anything to us. Just locked us up and stuff."

"How did the car blow up?"

Dick shrugged. "I dunno. Miss Somerville made me crawl out of the car. Then I think she crawled out behind me, and then it exploded." Dick gestured violently. "The…the guy told her to shine a flashlight out the window, so she did that first."

"What guy?"

"The…the one in charge."

"The Joker?"

"Yeah. I guess." Dick turned to look at the prostrate form in the snow. "I think she was just scared of you."

"Probably. I…uh…didn't realize who she was."

"She can probably explain it better to you."

"She can explain it to the police. Let's get out of here." Bruce bent and heaved the unconscious form of the social worker over his shoulder.

------

Consciousness hurt. Cecilia forced her eyes open a crack and tried to make sense of the blur of shadows, which seemed to be pulsing in time with her head. There was a pale smudge in the bottom corner of her vision, and she tilted her head an excruciating inch to see Richard wedged in beside her.

She forced her head back up and saw the horned shadow sitting behind the wheel. It took a few moments to locate her voice. "Who are you?"

"He's Batman," Richard informed her, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Bat…Man? Not horns, then, but…_ears_. And with the diminishment of the devil to the merely animal, she felt hysteria rising, like fizz from a well shook soda. Clenching her teeth to hold back the giggles she muttered, "Richard, are you acquainted with this…gentleman?"

Before the boy could answer the shadow spoke in a deep, rasping voice. "Most people in Gotham know who I am."

_And I always thought bats were kind of squeaky._ Choking down another burst of laughter, she managed, "Where…?"

"Home."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Hmm, not too sure how I feel about this section, but I guess every chapter can't be a masterpiece!

For anyone who was denied the delights of nursery rhymes as a small child, the full verse of the song is

_Round and round the cobbler's bench,_

_the monkey chased the weasel._

_The monkey said 'twas all in fun._

_POP! Goes the weasel._

**Responses to Reviewers ** Thank you all, once again! Unless you write yourselves, you can't possibly understand the sheer happiness that pours in when you find those little notification emails in your inbox. Responses can be found by clicking on my name to go to my bio page and then clicking the Homepage link.


	8. Fine, BE chapter 8 already

**A/N** As always, thank you ever so much for the reviews! Responses to reviews can be found by clicking the homepage link on my bio page. Next weekend is Fall Break, so more time to write! Huzzah!

**Disclaimer** I do not own Batman (or any of his accessories, allies, or antagonists).

**Acknowledgement** I would like to thank Jack London, whose hideous story _To Build a Fire_ has cemented in me a violent fear of freezing to death.

**Chapter 7**

_...I turned and saw beneath my feet and stretching out ahead, a lake so frozen it seemed to be made of glass. So thick a sheet never yet hid the Danube's winter course...the livid dead are sealed in place...and they beat their teeth like storks. Each holds his face bowed toward the ice, each of them testifies to the cold with his chattering mouth..._

_- The Inferno_

Rachel had spent the day barricaded in her office, frantically trying to catch up on her work overload. Daylight was nearly gone when her howling stomach made it known that she had eaten nothing but half a bowl of cornflakes all day.

The break room vending machine was out of everything but peanut M&Ms, and she was well into her second pack before the blaring television finally caught her attention.

_In relation to this morning's kidnapping, the police have asked that we periodically play the following tape._

The screen momentarily blacked out, and then a leering clown in a fluorescent green wig materialized. He perched on the end of a midnight blue sports car, a glass of champagne in hand.

_Hello, people of Gotham. I apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled programming; however, I have an urgent message for a mutual friend of ours. Yes, Batman, I'm talking to you. Been awhile, hasn't it? Nearly…five months? I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. Actually, I was wondering if, as an old friend, you could do me a favor. As I'm sure you know by now, I threw a small bash this morning and picked up a couple of unexpected guests. I don't have the time to drive them home myself and was wondering whether you would be kind enough to pick them up for me. If you can fit it into your schedule, just give the police a ring. They'll be expecting your call._

The news anchor was making some anxious and fatuous remark when Rachel's cell phone rang – the one whose number only very important people had. Tearing herself away from the television she flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Miss Rachel?"

"Alfred?" He hadn't called her Miss Rachel for years. Not, in fact, since her eighteenth birthday.

"Have you seen the news?"

"Yes, just now."

"Then there's something that you need to know. Can you come to the manor?"

"Thirty minutes."

- - - - - -

The most persistent thought in Cecilia's mind as they sped through the darkness was that heating obviously wasn't a priority of the…whatever it was the Bat was driving. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and tried to shiver unobtrusively in her wet clothes. _At least I'm not required to produce a scintillating flow of conversation_. She envied Richard, who had actually fallen asleep, his fair head resting lightly against her arm.

Without warning, the vehicle pulled to a stop. Cecilia tensed – she had no memory of this dimly lit stretch of highway.

"Your stop," the Bat growled.

Richard shook himself awake and smothered a yawn. "Are we there yet?"

"Where are we?" she demanded.

"Wayne Manor. Just over the wall."

They climbed out and Cecilia stared up at the sheer fifteen foot stone barrier. "I suppose you have a ladder handy?"

When he pulled the gun, she was too frozen to feel more than a flicker of alarm before he shot the grappling hook over the wall. A moment later, the Bat and Richard were on top of the wall, and then they disappeared on the other side. A belated rush of adrenaline warmed her enough to shout. "Hey!"

The Bat reappeared. "Something wrong?"

"What did you do with him?" she demanded as the creature landed beside her.

"Lifted him over the wall. How much do you weigh?"

"Getting a little personal, aren't we?"

"The gun can only take so much."

"One hundred sixty-seven," she snarled. "Is that a problem?"

He stepped back and deliberately examined her. "Not at all. It's refreshing to find a woman who's honest about her weight. Hold tight."

And the next moment she was jerked with dizzying speed to the top of the wall and dropped with a bone jarring thud to the other side. "Ignorant son of a one-eyed goat," she muttered balefully, scrambling back to her feet, but the Bat hadn't stuck around to hear himself insulted. She heard a powerful engine fading into the distance.

"Come on!" Richard stood on the edge of an orderly group of trees, up to his knees in snow, the tail of her coat trailing behind him like a half-shed skin.

Cecilia plodded along his broken path until she reached the trees where the snow was less deep. Richard was already plunging ahead, and Cecilia devoutly hoped he knew where he was going. The adrenaline was wearing off fast, and a leaden weariness accompanied her chattering teeth.

It had definitely been less than fifteen minutes when they saw a light bobbing toward them and heard a voice calling, "Dick!" The boy began running, doubling the distance between himself and Cecilia and leaving the trees behind.

_Thank heaven_, she thought, as her teeth did a mean imitation of a snare drum. _Dante was right when he described the deepest pit of hell as a lake of ice._

The moon was rising, and the light reflected off the snow created an eerily well lit scene. "Dick!" the voice called again, and now Cecilia could see that it was a woman with long, dark hair who had seen Richard and was running toward him. _Do I know her?_

The boy redoubled his efforts. "Rachel!"

Cecilia froze in her tracks, right at the edge of the trees. Her lips were almost too numb to form the words properly. "Speaking of the devil…"

- - - - - -

"Miss Dawes! He's safely on the grounds!"

Rachel stopped her restless pacing and bolted for the front door. She impatiently shoved her arms into her coat and was buttoning it on her way down the steps when Alfred caught her and issued a flashlight and walkie talkie. "He's near the orchard. Call in as soon as you've found him. I'll be waiting here. I'm certain Master Wayne will join you as soon as he's in."

The moon was bright enough to make the flashlight superfluous, but she turned it on anyway, sweeping the beam ceaselessly back and forth across the snowy landscape. It took ten minutes to bring the orchard into view. "Dick!"

A small figure ran toward her, and a minute later she was wrapping her arms around him. "Dick! Sweetheart, are you all right?"

"Sure," he answered cheerfully, returning her tight squeeze. "I'm kind of cold, though."

"Me too," she laughed, although she felt more like crying. "Let's go inside." Lifting the walkie talkie she announced, "Alfred, I've found him. He's fine. We're starting back to the house." Shoving both flashlight and walkie talkie into her pocket, she took Richard's hand and began walking.

------

Three minutes after leaving Somerville and Dick on the other side of the wall, the Batmobile zoomed into the cave and screeched to a stop. Batman emerged, already beginning his quick change act. _At least it's not a tux_, he thought wryly as he tore off the body armor and scrambled into jeans and the ancient Princeton sweatshirt Alfred had left for him. He all but flew up the stairs and out the front door, racing to join the search before the search ran into Miss Somerville. _She'd love nothing more than to assume I'm sitting warm and cozy on my butt while my elderly butler searches the snow for my ward._

Halfway to the orchard, he all but ran into two figures heading toward the house and came to a bemused stop. "Rachel?"

"Alfred called me."

Bruce nodded and looked down. "Hey, Dick, you ok?"

"Yeah."

"Ah…where's Miss Somerville?"

Dick looked surprised and turned to look behind him. "I thought she was following us."

"Who?" Rachel asked in confusion.

"Miss Somerville," Dick repeated, as if that explained everything.

"I'd better go look for her. You two go back to the house," Bruce directed, resuming his previous course. He could hear Rachel again asking Dick about the identity of the mysterious Miss Somerville and was cravenly glad it was his ward and not himself making this particular explanation. _Not that I won't get my turn._

He was just beginning to wish he'd paused to grab a coat (especially since he hadn't had to stage a joyful reunion for a certain social worker's benefit) when he finally saw the dark and huddled figure moving at a painfully slow pace. "Miss Somerville?" She didn't answer, but as he approached, he could hear her mumbling indistinctly. "Miss Somerville?" He laid a hand on her arm and felt her damp sweater that was beginning to freeze in the night air.

"M-Mr. Wayne?" she squinted through her filthy lenses. "Are you f-familiar w-with the w-works of J-Jack L-L-London? H-horrible s-st-tory ab-bout a m-man f-f-freezing t-to d-death. P-p-peaceful w-way t-to go. S-s-say you f-f-feel w-warm…" she trailed off, shivering violently.

Bruce lifted the walkie talkie. "Alfred? Call a doctor. I think she's in the beginning stages of hypothermia. He wrapped an arm around Somerville's shoulders and, half supporting and half dragging her, started toward the house as quickly as he could.

Alfred was waiting at the door, his arms full of warm and woolly items. "The doctor is on his way."

"Good," Bruce grunted, bodily hauling the social worker into the nearest room and depositing her on a sofa.

"Is she conscious?" the butler inquired anxiously.

"Sh-she c-certainly is."

"Excellent, then you'll need to remove your wet things. Do you require assistance?"

Interpreting the change in the direction of her shivers as a "No," Alfred led his employer from the room. "Sir, Lieutenant Gordon has been calling for you. On both phones."

"I should call." Bruce waved at the closed door. "She's all yours."

Alfred went to the kitchen and picked up the waiting tea tray. Back outside the closed door, he knocked gently. "Miss Somerville?" When he received no answer, he carefully opened the door and found her still sitting on the sofa, but wrapped in the enormous quilted bathrobe he had discovered in her room, with a pile of crumpled clothing on the floor beside her. However, as he drew closer, he perceived that not only was she still shivering, but that she was still wearing her shoes and gloves. "I hope you are feeling a bit warmer," Alfred said, setting down the tray and carefully kneeling before her. "I'll just help you off with these, shall I?"

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but made no move to stop him as he removed her sensible and ugly shoes and replaced her socks with dry ones.

"And may I have your gloves?" He gently worked open her left fist and pulled the glove free, but he had more trouble with the right one. Her fingers refused to pull straight, and when the leather was at last removed he could see why. Angry red ropes of scar tissue ran diagonally across her palm, pulling the fingers into a permanent claw. "How about a cup of tea?"

She managed a weak style. "S-step ov-ver B-bachus."

He smiled in return. "I quite agree. Not even the great vintages can live up to a properly brewed cup of tea. Cream or sugar?"

"B-both. Th-thank you, Mr. P-Pennyworth."

"Not at all, Miss Somerville."

- - - - - -

The Joker sat cross legged atop an enormous crate, his purple silk bathrobe spread out around him like a royal mantle. Across from him, a television rested on another crate, and he was occupied in rewinding and fast forwarding through a tape in the VCR. On the screen, a light flashed in the window of a blue Jaguar, then flashed again as the tape was rewound. The Joker giggled softly to himself. "Such an obedient woman. And so punctual. Exactly fifteen minutes between flashes. Then five minutes…and then…" Thirty seconds worth of fast forward. "Pop! Goes the weasel," he sang softly to himself, watching the burning car with the delight of a child on the Fourth of July. He continued talking, telling himself a bedtime story. "They sat there, eagerly holding their breaths, watching the second hand tick by, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment when they could start the engine and turn up the heat…" He collapsed into giggles. "Oh, how I wish I could have seen His face. It will drive Him crazy, trying to figure out who it was in the shed. He'll go round and round…round and round and round the mulberry bush…"

Mikey approached cautiously, cordless phone in hand. "Excuse me, sir?"

The Joker smiled benignly. "Yes, dear boy?"

"Phone for you, sir."

The Joker took it and held it to his ear. "And how are we this lovely evening?"

A voice, low and tight with controlled fury, commanded, "Turn on the news."

Joker stiffened indignantly. "Who is this?"

The voice softened into a hiss. "You fool, turn on the news."

Reluctantly, the clown stopped the tape and switched to the local news station.

_To update those viewers who are just joining us, the hostages taken in this morning's bank robbery have been rescued unharmed. Their identities have not been released, but we have an anonymous source that confirms Batman was involved in the rescue operation._

Joker drew in a long, sharp breath. "That's impossible! They were in the car…the car exploded…" The news station flashed a picture of the smoking remains of the Jag. "You see!"

"I see," the voice said softly. "And whatever dark altar you bow to, you'd better start sending up prayers of gratitude, because the only reason your delightfully reconstructed face remains reconstructed is because they were not in the car."

"Impossible! Batman was nowhere near the scene…"

"Batman had nothing to do with it."

"But how? They were scared, stupid…"

"Perhaps it's because the people I choose to employ don't sit around waiting for death. I allowed you to come back to Gotham because you might prove useful. But from this second on, you will move exactly when and where I tell you, or you will cease to be employed…by myself or anyone else…Do you have any idea who that boy was?"

An excited news anchor looked up from her desk.

_This just in. The identity of the hostages has been released. Apparently, the boy taken was Richard Grayson, ward of local billionaire Bruce Wayne. Richard was being escorted to his dentist appointment by a friend of the family..._

_To Be Continued..._


	9. The Subversive 8

**A/N **Well, I didn't quite get it done over fall break, what with book shopping and blockbuster free movie coupons, and two papers, not to mention a certain DVD that was recently released! Although, I was quite disgusted to discover that all of the special features are going to be on the deluxe addition. Stupid marketing ploys.

**Disclaimer** It's probably actually pretty safe for me to claim I own Batman, because I'm not worth the lawyer fees it would cost DC Comics to sue me…

**Acknowledgement** I would to thank Betty Crocker, whose chocolate cake and brownie mixes are some of the little things in life that mean so much…

**Chapter 9**

_If he jumped over a cliff, would you jump over a cliff?_

_-My exasperated father_

"I'm afraid the doctor sent Miss Somerville to bed, but Master Dick is in the kitchen, sir." Alfred escorted the police lieutenant to the kitchen, where Wayne and the boy were seated on stools at a marble counter top, devouring massive slices of chocolate cake. "Would you care for a piece of cake, Lieutenant?"

"Sure," Gordon agreed, sliding onto a stool across the bar from Wayne. "Evening, Mr. Wayne. I guess this must be Richard."

"Yes. Dick, this is Lieutenant Gordon."

The boy looked up, icing smeared across his upper lip. "Hi."

Gordon sighed appreciatively as the butler set a plate in front of him. "Would you care for a cup of coffee, sir?"

"I guess that wouldn't go down wrong." Gordon enjoyed a blissful bite before asking, "How old are you, son?"

"Eight."

"Eight. I reckon you're in what…second grade?"

Dick nodded, his mouth too full to answer.

Gordon brushed crumbs from his mustache. "I just need to ask you a few questions about what happened today. That ok?"

The boy glanced at Wayne, who nodded. "Sure."

"Start from when you first saw the robbers and tell me everything you can remember until you got home."

"We heard them shooting when we were waiting at the dentist…" Dick continued without interruption until he reached the part where he and Somerville had left the small room at the warehouse. "And then one of the robbers came to get us out. I think it was one of the robbers. They all took their face paint off, except for…um…"

"The Joker?"

"Yeah, him."

"So you saw their faces?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I only remember the one who came to get us out."

"Still," Gordon muttered, "that's something. You think you could describe him?"

"I guess," Dick mumbled, poking at cake crumbs with his fork.

"And then what happened?"

"We got in the car in the truck and we drove for a long time. They took out the car at that place with all the stumps. There was a little house, too. The truck drove away, and after awhile Miss Somerville shone a flashlight out the window."

"Why did she do that?"

Shrug. "I think he told her to. After that, she told me to crawl out of the car into the field. And she told me what to do if she couldn't find me. So I crawled out, and after a long time the car blew up. Then there was another car that drove away. And Miss Somerville was on fire. And then Batman came."

"Wait…Somerville was on fire?" Wayne demanded.

"Just her sweater. She lay in the snow to put it out."

"Did Miss Somerville explain why the car blew up?" Gordon questioned.

"No."

"And Batman took you home?"

"Yes." Dick wiggled uncomfortably on his stool. "Can I go to bed, now? I'm tired."

Wayne shot a questioning look at Gordon, who sighed. "Yeah, I'm done." The butler helped the kid down and led him out of the room. "I'll send an artist up first thing tomorrow, see if he can describe the one he saw." Gordon shook his head, licking the last bit of icing off his fork. "Running out there like he did…that's one gutsy kid you got on your hands, Mr. Wayne. Gutsy…or crazy."

- - - - - -

"Alfred, he ran into the middle of a shooting!"

"I know, Master Wayne." Through the partly open door they could hear the cheerful voices of Dick and of Rachel, who was putting the boy to bed. "And I am just as concerned as you are. But you can't deny that it was very brave."

"Brave? It was stupid! He's an eight-year-old-kid."

"He was trying to help."

"He was trying to get himself killed."

"Oh no, I don't think so, sir. Master Dick is not of a morbid turn of mind."

"That is not what I meant."

"Mmm. Are you familiar with the proverb that says people who dwell in glass houses shouldn't throw stones?"

Bruce's jaw dropped. "Are you trying to tell me that this is my fault?"

"The foundations of this house, sir, have a distinctly glassy look."

"I've had enough joking around for one night, Alfred, kindly say what you mean."

The butler looked slightly insulted. "You can't punish him for doing the same thing he imagines you do."

"It's not the same thing! I have equipment…training…"

"Equipment and training are all very well, but it's the spirit I'm talking about, and the will. And in those respects, sir, you are very much alike."

"Alfred. He's eight. And I'm not going to punish him. I'm just going to…"

"Discourage him?"

"Something like that."

There was a soft knock on the door and Rachel stuck her head through. "Dick is ready to say goodnight."

Bruce walked down the hall to the room where Dick lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. "So, what did you think of Lieutenant Gordon?"

The thin shoulders shrugged against the pillow. "He's ok. He kept getting cake in his mustache."

Bruce grinned. "I noticed. I think he's a good cop, though."

"Alfred never gets cake in _his_ mustache."

"How do you know? Have you ever seen Alfred eat cake? Or anything else?"

"No." Dick's eyes grew huge. "Is Alfred a robot?"

"No!" Bruce gasped, trying not to laugh and wondering how the conversation had gotten so far off track. "He just doesn't like people to watch him eat."

"Why not?"

"I dunno. Listen, Dick, Lieutenant Gordon thinks you're pretty brave, running out to help that woman like that." He paused but got no response. "But he also thinks it was a little crazy. I mean, you could have gotten hurt pretty badly, just running out there with all those guns shooting…" Bruce broke off, with the distinct impression that he was being ignored.

"Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about…when Miss Somerville came and I said…I like it here. I like it a lot." Dick turned so that his voice was muffled in the pillow. "I don't want to go."

"I don't want you to go either." Bruce reached out and carefully brushed the hair away from Dick's eyes. "It's ok about the other day. I understand."

"Thanks." Dick sighed heavily. "So I guess we should be really nice to Miss Somerville, huh?"

"I guess so," Bruce said dryly.

"She's not so bad," Dick offered. "She was really smart about the car blowing up. I didn't know it was going to explode."

Bruce's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Yes, she was, wasn't she? I'll have to ask her about it tomorrow."

Dick yawned, his mouth squishing his cheeks against his eyes. "Goodnight, Bruce."

Back in the study, Alfred was nonchalantly straightening a bookshelf, while Rachel stood in front of the piano, arms folded tightly against her chest. Bruce stopped in the doorway and looked cautiously from one to the other. "I think I'd better…"

"Oh no you don't," Rachel snapped. "I have a few things to say to you, Mr. Wayne. This whole day was obviously the result of your influence."

"That's just what I remarked myself," Alfred said cheerfully.

"You see! If Dick weren't constantly exposed to such a…a dangerous environment, he would never have dreamed of such a…a dangerous thing. And then, there's that _woman_…"

Bruce's grateful glance fell on the telephone's flashing voice mail light. "I have to go." He scooted around Rachel and flipped up the lid on the piano.

"I am not finished!" Rachel snapped, spinning around and missing the opening bookcase. "And you do not know how to play the piano, so don't pretend…"

She turned just in time to see the bookcase swinging shut. "Come back here!"

------

The voice on the phone was furious. "And when I think of the way I am sticking my neck out for you...How could you let this happen?"

Gatsby's slender fingers tightened around the telephone receiver, but his tone remained detached. "The problem has been dealt with. It will not happen again."

"It should never have happened at all. What if the boy had been killed?"

"It would have been unfortunate, certainly, but not disastrous?"

"Not disastrous? That boy is point of everything we've been doing for the past month."

"No, he is only one of several intriguing possibilities." Gatsby was growing impatient. "Do you have anything real to report, or may I stop wasting my time?"

The voice on the other end was beginning to whine. "All I'm saying is, why do we need him? Everything is under control."

"The people I choose to employ are none of your concern," Gatsby snapped. "Concentrate on your job. That seems to be quite enough difficulty for you." He slammed down the phone and stared moodily at the crystal bowl on the corner of his desk, where a pale fish swam restlessly back and forth. "Some people are beginning to have too great an opinion of their own importance." He reached out a finger and gently tapped the bowl. "Mephistopheles, what _are_ we going to do about that?"

**A/N** Huge thank-you's to all reviewers! Responses can be found by going to my bio page and clicking on the homepage link.


	10. 10? I demand a recount!

**A/N** Wow, feels like forever since I've updated, but I guess it's only been a little over the usual two weeks.

**Disclaimer** Unless it turns out that I'm adopted and the heir to the DC Comics empire, I don't own Batman.

**Acknowledgement** There's this restaurant in my hometown with a to-die-for chocolate cake called Black Rose…

**Chapter 9**

_It's plot exposition. It has to go somewhere._

_-The Great Muppet Caper_

_He gently waved the poker, watching the red tip glow and spark as it moved through the air. "No, Señorita, I don't think so."_

_She could feel the beads of sweat trickling down her cheeks as she stumbled to the desk and dropped to her knees. "Por favor, Señor Gutierrez, you must tell him I would never do such a thing."_

_The man behind the desk remained silent, refusing to meet her eyes._

_Don Carlos spoke. "Alberto."_

_A hard hand on her arm dragged her to her feet and back toward the center of the room. She began to sob. "Do not hurt me, please do not hurt me..."_

"_We will not hurt you, Señorita, if you will tell us the truth." Don Carlos stood directly in front of her, poker upright like a sword. "Who sent you to us?"_

"_No one," she gasped, trying to shrink away._

_His hand cracked against her jaw. "What did you steal?"_

"_Nothing," she whimpered, tasting blood in her mouth._

"_How many times have you been a thief in this house?"_

"_Never!"_

_Don Carlos said calmly, "Alberto, give me her hand."_

_An iron arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her left wrist to her side. Then her right hand was caught and the fingers bent painfully back. She began screaming, futilely kicking at the legs of her captor, banging her head against his chest._

"_Liars are always punished, Señorita," Don Carlos said gently, and then he nestled the poker's end against the palm of her hand._

- - - - - -

Gordon chewed thoughtfully on the end of his mustache. His wife said it made him look like a wet-whiskered Chihuahua, but in moments of deep meditation, he fell automatically into the habit. And at the moment, his meditation was positively profound, as he contemplated two definite problems which, coincidentally or not, had entered his life along with Batman.

After the fall of Carmine Falcone last spring, Gordon had expected at the very least a respite from the illegal drugs that daily flooded his city. It should have taken at least a little time for another crime lord to emerge and settle his distribution system into place. But Falcone's fall didn't seem to cause to much a flicker in the flow of LSD, heroin, and cocaine. Especially cocaine.

And that had scared Gordon. It meant there was someone so intimately familiar with the Gotham underworld that when a kingpin disappeared he could be replaced without trouble. And Gordon had had absolutely no idea who this person might be. With no idea what he might find, he had begun the long and dangerous process of tracing the chain of command backward, from the pushers on the street corners to the larger distributors.

Then, about four months after the destruction of the Narrows, Batman had managed to capture a high level distributor and wring out a few cryptic words concerning a "flier" before the man was shot by his own associates. And almost immediately afterward, the drug trade plunged. Most things became scarce over a period of about a month, except for cocaine, which all but disappeared overnight. If you weren't a fan of the closet marijuana industry, you may as well roll joints with Ben Franklins. It was more affordable.

And then there was this Joker…

There was a whisper of movement behind him, but Gordon didn't bother turning around. "Took you long enough. You get stuck behind a flock of sparrows or something?

Silence. Gordon rolled his eyes and turned to find Batman standing with arms crossed, glaring. _You, my friend, need to develop a sense of humor_. "So, what's your side of the story?"

"When I arrived, the car was in flames. The boy recognized me and began running toward me. The woman tried to prevent him. I didn't realize who she was and treated her as an attacker."

"Knocked her cold in the snow, eh?" The corner of Batman's mouth was beginning to have a nasty curl to it, and Gordon hastily added, "She wake up on the ride home?"

"Yes."

"You talk to her at all?"

"Very little. She seemed disoriented. I thought it was a job better left to you."

"I couldn't get to her. The doctor had sent her to bed. But from what the kid said, it was like…like she knew the car was going to blow."

Batman let out his breath his a soft hiss. "You think she could be in league with the Joker." It was a statement, not a question.

Gordon shrugged. "I don't know anything. I'm just going to ask Miss Somerville a few questions, first thing in the morning. By the way, did you do any poking around out there?"

"No. I thought it important to get the hostages away."

"There was somebody else in the shed. Nothing you could have done; we're pretty sure they were dead quite a while before the explosion. But it was weird. We don't know who it was yet, but the arms were stretched out over an iron frame. Kind of looked like wings. And there was another, real fancy iron thing lying on the chest. Shaped like a J."

- - - - - -

Cecilia's eyes flew open and she stared blindly into the fuzzy dark. _It's always nice to wake up before they get bad._

Tossing off the suffocating blankets, she discovered that she was in her allotted room at Wayne Manor. She turned on the bedside lamp and fumbled for her glasses, at last resting them on her nose and blinking through their blessedly clean lenses. The clock read four thirty.

"Abominable hour. No decent person ought to be awake right now," she muttered, just before her stomach let loose a terrific growl. She'd had nothing but a cup of tea the night before; the doctor had pronounced her un-frostbitten and sent her straight to bed, a course of action she'd had no wish to protest.

Pulling her thick robe on over her flannel pajamas, she stuff her feet into her slippers and shuffled her way to the small kitchen. Although the occasional dim light glowed, the manor appeared deserted. _I wonder when the servants start coming in?_ _What servants there are_. Considering the spotless state of the mansion, they had to exist, but if they had corporeal existence, Cecilia had yet to discover it. _Like the enchanted castle in the fairy tale – invisible servants. I'll have to ask Pennyworth._

Flipping on the small light over the sink, she opened one or two cabinets before her eye fell on the crystal covered cake stand. She lifted the lid and found the remains of a dark chocolate cake, thickly iced and decorated with maraschino cherries. _Maybe I froze to death after all because this is definitely heaven._

- - - - - -

Bruce leaned tiredly against the side of the cage that carried him to the study. After his conversation with Gordon, he'd spent the night prowling the darkest neighborhoods of Gotham, looking and listening for a clue, any clue, to the Joker's whereabouts, but he'd come up empty-handed.

The hot shower beating his shoulders seemed to ease the tension that had knotted there ever since Alfred's phone call _this...yesterday afternoon_. He toweled off, climbed into his pajamas, and realized that he was still too keyed up to sleep.

He padded down the hallway to Dick's room and gently pushed open the door. The boy with his face almost entirely buried in the pillow, curled into a lump beneath the rocket ship comforter. Bruce stared with unconscious anxiety until he saw Dick shift slightly beneath the covers, proving that he was still breathing. Making a face at his own paranoia, Bruce shut the door and went downstairs.

As he approached the kitchen, he could see soft light streaming from the doorway. _Alfred. Does the man ever sleep?_ He was halfway across the kitchen floor before it registered that the figure sitting behind the counter not Alfred.

Somerville sat with her chin propped on her fist, staring at him. "I always imagined that if I made a billion dollars I'd never get up before noon." Her eyes traveled thoughtfully over his unwrinkled pajamas and wet hair. "But maybe never going to bed at all is an equally enjoyable alternative. A little club hopping to soothe your nerves?"

Bruce couldn't think of a response. Any response, that is, that didn't involve accusing her of complicity with organized crime and kicking her out of his house. "How are you feeling?" he managed in a more or less neutral tone, and stalked past her to the refrigerator.

"Fine, thank you. The restorative powers of chocolate cake are really quite remarkable."

Startled at the suddenly amiable tone, he glanced at her and finally noticed the icing smeared crystal plate in front of her. Turning back, he pulled open the fridge and pretended to deliberate between the orange and the cranberry cocktail. He heard her plate clatter in the sink and slowly reached for the orange juice, hoping that she would be gone by the time he turned around. She wasn't. She stood leaning against the counter, arms folded, hands hidden inside the sleeves of her enormous, and enormously hideous, bathrobe.

"The…boss…was dressed as a clown. I suppose you know this?"

His hand gripped the juice cap. _She acts like she's never heard of him_. "The 'boss' is a recognized felon, popularly termed the 'Joker.' His costume is his trademark."

"Really? Well, he's going to have replace his shoes. He tried to touch Richard and Richard threw up." She grinned suddenly, her round cheeks melting into crescent moons. "I thought we were dead."

"Richard was sick?"

"No. He simply got rid of what little was in his stomach. They didn't offer us lunch."

"Why?"

"No manners."

He shook his head impatiently. "Was Dick hurt?"

Surprise flickered across her face. "Richard has a phobic fear of clowns. Didn't you know?"

He leaned back against the refrigerator, absently popping the sides of the carton in and out. "No," he replied slowly, "I didn't. Dick's only been living with me since August, and I never knew his parents."

"He was brave enough around the mimes, but when clown himself appeared…it was almost as if his mind shut down." She frowned. "You don't know what caused such a deep seated fear?"

"No," he answered, a little too quickly.

She stared at him, her eyes unblinking behind her glasses. "I wonder if Richard himself knows. If you could discover the incident that began his phobia, you might be able to solve some of the mystery of his early past."

"I'll think about it."

She quirked an eyebrow at his lack of enthusiasm but didn't pursue the subject. "How much did he tell you about yesterday?"

"The same things he told the police. That you were held in a warehouse for most of the day before a truck drove you to the tree farm. That you told him to get out of the car and that the car blew up. And that Batman gave you a ride home."

"The police were here? Of course they were," she answered herself.

"They'll be back to talk to you."

"Ah." She straightened and began to walk toward the door. Halfway there, she stopped and looked back at him. "By the way, Mr. Wayne, there's no need to thank me. I am, after all, paid to work this job."

Bruce choked on his orange juice. He was still coughing when a new voice said coolly, "I hope I haven't missed breakfast." A ticked off Rachel Dawes stood in the doorway, glaring at them.

"Rachel." Somerville was smiling, but it was less than friendly. "It's been a long time."

Rachel wasn't smiling back. "What are you doing here?"

"My job, Miss Dawes."

"Balancing Wayne Enterprises' accounts?" Rachel asked sarcastically.

"No, I work for the government. They figured out that it was cheaper to hire me than to put me in a correctional institution."

Before Rachel could reply, the opening notes of Beethoven's Fifth filled the kitchen. Somerville pulled a cell phone from her pocket. "I hate to run when we have so much to catch upon, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me." She lifted the phone to her ear as she left, and they could hear her voice drifting back. "Hello, Terry."

"What was that about?" Bruce demanded. "And what are you doing here?"

"I'm here because you walked out on the middle of our conversation, and that was about you nurturing a viper in your home."

Bruce straddled one of the bar stools and regarded her intently. "I did notice the fangs."

"Five years ago we both up at Hearts and Homes."

"The charity foundation for street kids?"

"Yes. It's headed by Henry Judas."

"He's a busy man – head of social services too, isn't he?"

Rachel's face softened momentarily. "A busy man and a very good one. He really cares about those kids. Anyway, I was doing pro bono work, and she was there on some kind of internship. One night, I forgot my briefcase in the headquarters office, and when I went back for it, I caught her hacking into the financial records. I went to Judas, and he said he would talk to her. Later, he came to me and said that it had been a misunderstanding and that Miss Somerville was very sorry about the whole thing. He also asked me not to say anything because the incident could be very damaging to the woman's career. I agreed, but I swear the only thing she was ever sorry about was that she got caught."

"Do you know why she was interested in the financial records?"

"There's usually only one reason. And anyone who steals from homeless kids should be locked up and the key thrown away."

- - - - - -

Cecilia shut her bedroom door behind her. "Terry, I promise you, I'm fine…Yes, I know what you saw on the news…I didn't lie when I said I thought it wouldn't be dangerous…I didn't…Yes, I know I'm fat…Look, I'm going back to bed, and you need to get ready for work. Goodbye, Terry…No, don't even think about coming up here…Goodbye…Terry, goodbye." Clicking the phone shut she switched it for a slender, silver laptop and crawled into bed. A minute later she was connected to the mansion's wireless network.

_Time to start living up those character endorsements Rachel Dawes is no doubt giving me. I wonder what billionaires choose for passwords?_

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Large thank you's and bat shaped helium balloons to all who left reviews! This story now has over 100! Responses to reviews can be found, as always, by going to my bio and clicking on the homepage link.

OK…my internet is acting up and I can't access the review response page. Hopefully they'll be up tomorrow.


	11. Now a Chapter

**A/N** Woohooo! Christmas vacation! You gotta love it.

**Disclaimer** Christmas is a time for sharing. Unfortunately, DC Comics didn't get the memo.

**Acknowledgement** Thank you, Law and Order, for expanding my notions of police procedures. (The old ones that still have Fontana are the best.)

**Chapter 10**

_The problem is not that it's too difficult for children, but that it's too difficult for grown ups._

_- Madeleine L'Engle_

Name: Grayson, Richard Charles

Age: 8

Birthday: February 19

Height: 3'9

Weight: 65 lb.

Eye color: Blue

Those were the statistics in the file from social services. The brief biography said that Richard had lived with both of his parents until the age of two, when his father had died in an unspecified accident. He then returned to Gotham with his mother, where they lived on a pension from Wayne Enterprises.

_Must not have been much of a pension if they had to live in the Narrows_. Her computer issued a series of triumphant clicks, and Cecilia's attention returned to the screen. _Pimpernel? As in...The Scarlet? Interesting choice... _A click of the mouse and the names of Bruce Wayne's private files were scrolling before her. _...Finances, house and staff...Finances, personal...Finances, Wayne Enterprises...Grayson, Richard._ "And Bingo was his name-o," she sang softly as she copied the file to her own hard drive. On a whim, she also copied the three finance folders, then carefully erased all traces of her presence on Wayne's hard drive and settled down for some serious reading.

- - - - - -

Dick sat at the kitchen counter, seriously separating the stars from the marshmallows in his Lucky Charms. Cecilia sat at the table, closely observing him over the rim of her coffee cup. The events of the day before appeared to have left no visible damage on the boy, who looked about as contented as a child could be. Dick was slurping the last of the pots of gold when Alfred reentered the kitchen.

"If you are finished with your breakfast, Master Dick, Miss Tracy is waiting for you upstairs."

Dick looked outraged. "I have to have school today?"

"It's Thursday. You always have school on Thursdays."

"Yeah, but…"

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then hop to it. And don't forget to clean your teeth."

"But it's so boring."

Alfred looked stern, and Dick shuffled his way out of the kitchen. Alfred placed Dick's bowl in the sink. "May I offer you some breakfast, Miss Somerville?"

"No thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, I don't need anything other than coffee."

Alfred's mouth tightened every so slightly, but he nodded courteously and turned to the sink. Cecilia's own mouth twitched. She could practically feel the disapproval radiating toward her from that ramrod of a back, not over her refusal of breakfast but because she insisted on addressing him by his surname. On her first night in the manor, he had politely requested that she call him Alfred, and she had just as politely refused. Calling him by his first name while he continued to address her by her last would, Cecilia felt, put her at a decided psychological disadvantage. Once you started thinking of someone as a servant, you began, in certain ways, to take them for granted. Alfred Pennyworth would be a very dangerous man to forget.

Setting her cup on the counter with a quiet clink, Cecilia followed Richard out of the kitchen. The boy was nowhere to be seen, but she made her way confidently up a flight of stairs and down a corridor to an open door.

The room was an education major's dream. Large windows flooded the room with light while presenting a beautiful view of the snow covered grounds. From the ceiling dangled models of the solar system and various constellations, while the floor was covered in a thick carpet woven in a pattern of jungle vegetation with animals peering out between the broad leaves. Brightly colored charts with diagrams of the various systems of the human body hung along one wall, and a table holding a microscope rested beneath them. At the front of the room, a slender woman stood shuffling through a thick file folder, her blond hair tumbling carelessly over one shoulder. At Cecilia's entrance, she looked up, and an expression of displeasure crossed her porcelain features.

"Miss Somerville. Will you be joining us again, today?"

"If it is quite convenient to you, Miss Tracy. I promise not be a distraction."

The teacher scowled, but had no choice but to nod in agreement. Cecilia pulled a straight backed chair into a corner of the room and seated herself complacently.

- - - - - -

_What's the point of getting kidnapped if I can't even miss one stupid day of school?_ Dick leaned over the sink and took a deep breath through his nose. A explosion of toothpaste emerged from his mouth, spattering evenly around the sides of the bowl. Surveying his work with satisfaction, Dick wiped his mouth on the towel and made his reluctant way to the schoolroom.

"Dick!" cried Miss Tracy the moment he stuck his foot through the doorway. The next moment he was scooped up in a perfumed and suffocating hug. "Oh Dicky, I'm so glad you're safe."

She released him at last and Dick backed away in relief before it occurred to him that here was a possible chink in the chain of command. He assumed a pitiful expression, allowing the corners of his mouth to droop. "It was really scary."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sure it was." Miss Tracy reached out and brushed the fine blond hair away from his forehead. "Did they hurt you?"

"No," Dick responded uncertainly, wondering what sort of injury he might be able to create. "But…I can't think very well."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Mr. Wayne thinks it would be good for you to have school today, but we won't do anything too hard, ok?"

Dick sighed heavily. "Ok."

Dick slowly took his place at a low table, and Miss Tracy stood in the front of the room, tapping a polished wooden pointer on a small white board. "Today we will learn about the silent 'gh' sound."

Miss Tracy's soft voice droned on, and Richard transferred his focus to a picture of a rocket blasting off. _"Data control, this is Captain Grayson. All systems are go."_

"_Excellent, Grayson. You know that the fate of the whole world depends on this mission…"_

"Dick?"

Dick scowled in annoyance as his attention was forced back to the present. He discovered that Miss Tracy had set an open book in front of him. "Dick, why don't you try reading this paragraph for me?"

Dick looked down at the word groupings and felt overwhelmingly bored. It was probably something about ponies or playing baseball. It usually was. He turned soulful blue eyes on Miss Tracy. "Couldn't you read it to me?"

"Well…Just once so that you can get the feel of it."

A movement in the corner caught Dick's eye, and he turned his head to see Alfred saying something in a soft voice to Miss Somerville. Dick hadn't even realized she was in the room. Miss Somerville nodded and stood, and she and Alfred left. Dick turned back and resigned himself to hearing about the pony Delight, who took fright and had to sleep with a night light.

- - - - - -

Gordon shifted nervously on the rich brocade cover of the sofa. He had felt a lot more comfortable last night in the casual setting of the kitchen than he did in this delicately decorated room. _What kind of people actually install white carpet?_

He rose to his feet as a woman entered the room. "Miss Somerville?" She nodded. "I'm Lieutenant Gordon."

She regarded him unsmilingly. "How do you do?"

"I hope you're feeling alright after yesterday?"

"Yes, thank you." She sat down on a chair and waited expectantly.

Gordon resumed his seat and noted that Somerville, in her baggy sweater and severe bun, appeared as out of place as he felt. "Can you tell me what happened yesterday? Please be as thorough as possible."

"I was escorting Richard to the dentist…"

Gordon allowed her to talk without interruption until she reached the explosion. "Miss Somerville, how did you know the car was rigged to blow?"

"I didn't. Actually, I felt rather silly lying out there in the snow, pushing the button."

"Then why did you do it?"

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. "They let us see their faces. I couldn't believe they would just let us drive away. And there was a remark the, ah, Joker made. Something that made me think starting the car would trigger a trap."

Although Gordon studied her carefully, he could detect nothing besides a calm confidence. "An awfully slender lead. What would you have done without the remote start button?"

"I don't know."

"Have you ever had any other run-ins with the Joker?"

"Certainly not. In fact, yesterday, I had no idea who he was."

"Really?" Gordon allowed a faint note of disbelief to enter his tone. "He made national headlines a few months ago with a crime spree here in Gotham."

"I was out of the country."

"Oh?" he gently prompted.

"Columbia. I worked with an internationally sponsored orphanage."

That sounded legitimate. It would be easy enough to check. "And what brought you to Gotham?"

"Work. Surely, Lieutenant, you don't suspect that the attack was aimed at me personally?"

"Frankly, no. The indications are that you and boy were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we have to cover the angles."

"Including the convenient presence of this bat person?"

This time Gordon was genuinely surprised. "Didn't anyone explain to you?"

"I really haven't had time to talk to anyone." She lifted a hand and touched the base of her neck gingerly. "So no, I haven't received an explanation about why it was necessary for the creature to knock me over the head."

"An unfortunate mistake. The Joker put a video on the networks asking Batman to pick up the hostages. Of course, had things gone according to plan, you would have been dead by the time he got there."

Somerville adjusted her glasses and gave Gordon a severe look that made him feel he was back in the third grade. "So Batman is a part of the police force."

"Not exactly. He's more of an…independent consultant."

"A vigilante?"

"No…" Gordon just stopped himself from sticking the corner of his mustache in his mouth and wondered how his interrogation had gotten so far off course. "If you really want to know about him, back issues of the _Gotham Globe_ will tell you as much as anyone else knows. All I can say is, our job's sure gotten a whole lot easier since he showed up."

"Yes," she agreed unexpectedly, "I heard about the wonderful job the police did in helping out with the Hearts and Homes fundraiser last month. Mr. Judas was very grateful."

Gordon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "We were happy to do it. It was good publicity for the department and besides, Judas helps a lot of kids."

"Yes," she agreed quietly, and Gordon thought he detected a strange flash of regret.

After a moment, he encouraged, "And after the car exploded, what happened?" He listened to rest of her story in silence, then stood. "Thank you very much, Miss Somerville. Those are all my questions for now. However, the department artist is set up next door, and I was hoping you might be able to describe one or more of your kidnapers."

"Certainly," she agreed, and rose to follow him from the room.

- - - - - -

Bruce sat at his desk, staring absently at the swirling colors of his screensaver. _Dick has a clown phobia?_ It would fit with what the boy had said of his mother's connections with the circus. Back in August, Bruce had hired a detective to try and trace Robyn Grayson through that slender clue, but the man had poked around nearly three dozen different circuses and carnivals with no results. Bruce had dutifully filed every one of the useless reports in Richard's file until, too frustrated to remain inactive, he had tried to see whether Batman could do a better job.

Someone cleared their throat, and Bruce looked up to see Somerville standing in the doorway. "Miss Somerville, what can I do for you?"

"I understand you have a meeting with Miss Tracy to talk about Richard's progress."

"Yes, she should be here in," Bruce glanced at his watch, "two minutes. Would you like to be present?"

"You must be psychic," she answered, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm, and seated herself on a chair near the door. Bruce went back to staring at his screensaver.

Two minutes to the second later, Miss Tracy walked into the office. "Mr. Wayne, I hope I'm not late." If her voice had been sweet when talking to Richard, it now held enough honey to drown a hive of bees.

"Of course not, Miss Tracy, punctuality is one of your many gifts."

She giggled and sat down across from him, not seeming to notice Somerville's presence. "I know you're a very busy man. I wouldn't presume to waste your time."

Bruce waited patiently. He personally had never quite understood the woman, but then, he didn't know anything about educating a second grader either.

Miss Tracy flipped open her file folder. "Dick's math scores are, of course, way above his grade level. We've moved on to long division and some simple algebra. In science we've continued to study different sorts of engines."

Bruce frowned, struggling to remember. "Haven't you been studying engines since the beginning of fall?"

"But there's such a lot to learn, and Dicky does enjoy them. In social studies we've studied the pilgrims and the Native Americans. And we're still working on the second grade reader. Dick seems to be about on grade level there."

There was a very soft snort from the door. Miss Tracy started and turned to see Somerville regarding her with a faint smile. "Miss Somerville, I didn't see you."

"Apparently not. But don't let me interrupt you."

"I…er…" Miss Tracy fluttered the pages of her folder. "I think that's all."

Bruce looked surprised. Typically, these monthly meetings lasted for at least an hour. An hour which, he had to admit, he mostly spent floating in a confused haze as Miss Tracy rambled on about state standards and personalized curriculum.

"Unless you have any questions," the tutor added hastily.

"Ah, none that I can think of."

Smiling nervously, she gathered up her folder and left, casting a sideways glance at Somerville.

Bruce stared after her in bemusement. "That was odd. You seem to have frightened her, Miss Somerville."

Somerville moved up to occupy the chair the tutor had just vacated. "Tell me, Mr. Wayne, have you ever sat in on one of Miss Tracy's sessions with Richard?"

"Once. But Miss Tracy had warned me that I would be a distraction, and after the experience I had to agree with her. All Dick wanted to do was talk."

"Did you wonder why such an obviously bright child had so much trouble focusing?"

Bruce shrugged. "Kids and school. I was usually bored, too."

"Mmm." Somerville looked thoughtful. "Fortunately, Richard had no desire to talk to me, so I was able to observe a good deal on Tuesday, and then again today. I'm not a licensed educator, but I think I can safely say he is not reading on grade level."

"You mean he's above it?"

"No."

"He has problems reading?" Bruce asked in disbelief.

"I don't know," she responded dryly. "I haven't been able to observe him. Every time a reading assignment has come up in the classroom, he's been able to talk his way out of it with the charm of a practiced charlatan."

"What?"

"Richard Grayson is a very strong willed boy. From the little I observed, Miss Tracy is incapable of making him do anything he doesn't want to. Furthermore, she has no interest in doing so."

"She's a licensed teacher," Bruce protested, "and she came with high recommendations. Why wouldn't she be doing her job?"

Somerville's mouth drew itself into a prim little line. "Come, Mr. Wayne, surely you've noticed."

"Miss Somerville, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"In theory, a happy ward makes a happy, grateful guardian. Shall we say that the core of Miss Tracy's interest does not lie with the boy?"

He'd certainly had much worse accusations hurled at him, so why did he feel like he'd been caught kissing the maid in the broom closet? Despite himself, Bruce could feel a flush heating his cheeks. "That's ridiculous," he muttered.

Somerville looked positively maternal, as if it took all her self-control not to pat his hand and say, "There, there, silly boy." What she did say was, "But quite apart from that matter, the woman's methods are preposterous. She stands at the front of the room and lectures as if she had a whole class full. And her textbook selections! She's absolutely incapable of holding Dick's attention." Somerville shook her head disapprovingly and stood. "If you want my advice, Mr. Wayne, you'll find a new tutor immediately, preferably a male one. Or at least, one married and over sixty-five."

She left Bruce staring after her in humiliation. A minute later, he could have sworn he heard the faint sound of laughter echoing down the corridor.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Huge thanks to those who left notes of encouragement and understanding about the school-induced delay!

Responses to reviews can be found by clicking the homepage link on my bio.


	12. Chapter? What chapter?

**A/N** Make certain you've read the chapter before this one. I posted it Wednesday, but because I was just replacing the delay explanation, it didn't register as a new chapter.

MERRY, MERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

**Disclaimer** See all previous chapters.

**Acknowledgement** Thank you to my little brother, who loves jumping on me whether I'm asleep or not.

**Chapter 11**

_For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows._

_The First Epistle of the Apostle Paul to Timothy_

"I have to go into the office today," Somerville announced, as she pushed back her plate and stood up. "I expect to be back around dinnertime."

A flash of excitement crossed Dick's face, but his mouth was crammed with bacon, and Somerville had left the room before he could speak. "Hey, no Miss Somerville! That means Bruce and I can work out!" Bruce and Alfred had agreed that Dick's unusual martial arts lessons were better suspended during the social worker's visit. "I've been practicing spinning and…" He broke off, suddenly disappointed. "Oh. School."

"Not today," Alfred informed him. "Miss Tracy won't be coming in."

"Woohoo!" Dick jumped up and down, excitedly punching the air. His victory dance continued until another thought occurred to him. "Does Bruce have any pointers?"

"Appointments," Alfred corrected. "He has a meeting this afternoon with Mr. Fox."

Dick wrinkled his nose, then turned his biggest eyes on Alfred. "Do you think I could wake him up? Just for today."

Private amusement flickered through the butler's eyes. "I think that would be quite all right."

"Yes!" Dick punched the air once more before running out of the room.

Bruce lay soundly asleep, one arm dangling over the side of the bed, only the top of his head visible above the blankets. Dick pounded down the hall and slammed open the door. Bruce didn't stir. Without hesitation, Dick hit the blanketed form with all the force of a sixty-five pound canon ball. "Hey, Bruce!"

Bruce bolted out of bed, sending Dick tumbling to the floor. "What's wrong!"

"Nothing," Dick answered, picking himself up.

Bruce stared at him for a moment, then fell back onto the bed with a groan, pulling the pillow over his face. Dick pulled it back off. "Miss Somerville's gone."

Bruce blinked blearily. "That's nice."

"She's not coming back until dinner. So we could work out in the gym. Please? Pleeeeease!"

Bruce yawned. "Dick we discussed…Did you just say Somerville was gone?"

"For the whole day."

"I guess that's worth getting up for." Bruce dragged himself out of bed and rummaged through his drawers for a t-shirt and shorts. When he was dressed, he slowly followed his bouncing ward to the gym.

"Watch, Bruce, I can do a spinning jump thing like Yoda!"

Bruce was smothering another yawn. "That's…" The rest of his sentence was lost in a grunt as Dick's foot slammed into his kidneys.

"I got you, Bruce, I got you!"

"Yeah," gasped Bruce, finally awake, "you got me."

- - - - - -

Cecilia was trying to untangle her scarf fringe from her coat zipper when a voice spoke behind her. "Cecy? Cecy, is that you?"

She turned to see a slender man with pale skin and white blond hair grinning at her. "Simon?" she exclaimed, a pleased smile breaking over her face. "I can't believe you're still here."

"I'm like a bad penny," he laughed. "No one else would take me."

"Untrue," a voice boomed. Henry Judas approached and clapped a hand on Simon's shoulder with enough force to make the smaller man wince. "Hearts and Homes only gets his super-accountant services on the side. Wayne Enterprises gets them the rest. And they couldn't do without him anymore than we could."

Cecilia, once again grave-faced in Judas' presence, nodded. "I'm certain that's true."

Simon's fair skin reddened, and Judas laughed. "That's my boy, humble to the bone." Giving Simon's shoulder one more pat, he said, "If you'd come to my office, Cecilia, you can tell me how things are going."

It was amazing how much stuff could be crammed into one small room. Cecilia shifted a pile of orange fundraising fliers off the decrepit folding chair and sat down, then examined the handmade cards tacked up like wallpaper.

"From the kids," Judas said, waving his hand expansively. "I've got eight years of Christmases up there." Folding his hands before him, he gave an encouraging smile. "How goes it?"

"From what I've observed, Richard Grayson is a very lucky little boy. His physical needs are, of course, more than met, but it seems that he is cared about as well as cared for."

"Wayne doesn't dump him on the servants?"

"The butler, Pennyworth, is a major caretaker, and Wayne has plenty of his own pursuits, but he deliberately sets aside time to spend with the boy."

"Could it be he's doing that only to impress you?"

She shrugged. "It's possible, but it has the feel of a set routine. Of course, this is only my fifth day. I'll have a more definite opinion at the end of the next week."

"And you've found nothing to suggest that Wayne is…putting his own interests ahead of the boy's?"

"Not yet."

Judas leaned forward earnestly. "We have to get this right, for Richard's sake. Look hard, Cecilia."

She settled back in her chair, arms folded across her stomach. "That's what I'm paid for."

Judas watched her steadily. "We were very concerned when we heard about your adventure Wednesday."

"A most unfortunate accident," she said calmly.

He shook his head. "All I can say is, the boy was lucky that you were with him, Cecilia. Very lucky."

- - - - - -

"Thanks, Gladys," Bruce said, as Dick flopped down by the desk and opened his box of colored pencils.

"Oh, he's never any trouble, Mr. Wayne." The matronly blue-haired secretary bent down and peered at Dick's notebook. "What story are you drawing now, honey?"

"See, these giant aliens that look like horseshoes are attacking this planet…"

Bruce walked into Fox's office and shut the door behind him. "Somebody should tell Gladys that blue rinses went out years ago."

Fox snorted. "Don't you dare interfere with my secretary, Mr. Wayne. She's the best I've ever had, and I don't care if she colors her _skin_ blue."

"No, Mr. Fox, I wouldn't dare." Bruce dropped into the chair across the desk.

"Have you had a chance to read through those files?"

Bruce sighed. "No. To be honest, this thing with Dick made me forget. I wouldn't have even shown up today had Alfred not reminded me."

"I'll put it in a nutshell for you." Fox shoved a piece of paper across the desk. "Here's a list of some of Wayne Enterprises' sources of revenue during the last five years Earle was in charge."

Bruce frowned, scanning the list. "I don't recognize any of these. We have an emerald mine in Kenya?"

"Oh, we have a mine, but there's no emeralds in it. Everything on that list has some basis in reality, and none of it should have made anywhere near the profits recorded."

Bruce pushed out a long, slow breath. "He was laundering money."

"Looks that way."

"Where did it go?"

"Don't know. Yet."

Bruce ran his eyes down the long list. "How much?"

"Close to a hundred million a year. Just a ripple in the overall scheme of the company."

"Five years," muttered Bruce, "and he'd still be getting away with it if I hadn't fired him. What are we going to do?"

"Report it and request an audit. If we're real cooperative, maybe we can escape publicity and avoid upsetting the shareholders. I mean…the other shareholders."

"Earle couldn't have done this all by himself."

"Nope."

"So what do you suggest?"

"What do all good housewives do when there are rats in the cellar?"

- - - - - -

Cecilia sat in her new cubicle, staring at a stack of files.

"Hard at work, I see."

She looked over and saw the white blond head peeking through the door. "Simon! I thought you'd left."

"No, I'm having lunch with Henry. We meet twice a week to talk business." Simon edged his way into the small space. "Cecy, it's really good to see you again. You look…"

"Old," she laughed, "I know. But doesn't my horrible respectability inspire great confidence?" Privately she thought that she couldn't compliment Simon on his appearance either. He had always been skinny and pale, but he had diminished to skeletal thinness, and there were deep shadows around his eyes. He had also picked up the habit of twitching his hands inside his pockets. "And how are things at old H&H?"

"Good, good, really good." His face relaxed in a smile, and he stopped twitching. "They're good kids, you know. We had an Ultimate Frisbee tournament in the summer."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yeah. They're good kids," he repeated, "they just got dealt a bad hand." His face resumed its pinched look, and his eyes wandered vaguely. "Look, Cecy, I was hoping we could maybe have dinner some time, talk about things?"

"Of course," she agreed.

A curious expression crossed his face. She couldn't decide whether it was panic or relief. "How about next Tuesday night? I should have…that is, I should have some free time."

"Next Tuesday," she agreed.

He backed away nervously. "I'm glad you're here, Cecy. Henry's waiting for me. I'll see you on Tuesday." He disappeared, leaving Cecilia frowning after him.

She worked steadily until five on the files that would make up her regular workload once the Grayson case was finished. Then she bundled up and drove back to the manor. Passing the open door of the library, she glimpsed Richard on the floor, engrossed in a comic book. In a nearby, oversized chair slumped Bruce Wayne, dead to the world.

_Asleep at this time of day? I swear the man's nocturnal._ Shaking her head disapprovingly, she started up the stairs.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Looking back over previous chapters, I realized I may have been a little unclear about the timing of what's happened so far, so here's a little timetable in terms of Somerville's actions:

Monday: Somerville arrives at Wayne Manor

Tuesday: Somerville sits in on Dick's tutoring session (referred to in Chapter 10)

Wednesday: Somerville and Dick are kidnapped by the Joker

Thursday: Somerville steals Bruce's files and gets Miss Tracy fired

Friday: Somerville goes in to the social services office and meets an old friend


	13. Baker's dozen? Maybe not

**A/N** I might be able to get one more chapter up before the year ends. If so, it'll be up Dec. 31. Otherwise, see you next year!

**Disclaimer** Having run out of witty ideas, I must again resort to "See all previous chapters."

**Acknowledgement** To my childhood friend, Cameron, whose mouse maze was the envy of my third grade heart.

**Chapter 12**

_**Gambit (n.)** is an opening move in chess, in which the player risks minor pieces in order to gain an advantage... in extended and figurative uses a gambit is a way of beginning a conversation or of turning it to one's advantage... any sort of stratagem designed to give its user an advantage..._

_The Columbia Guide to Standard American English_

"Ah, Miss Dawes, I was just wondering whether I ought to set another place."

"Thank you, Alfred." Rachel swept through the front door of Wayne Manor, her arms full of brightly wrapped packages. "There are more in the back seat if you could send someone to get them."

"Of course. Master Wayne and young Master Dick are in the library."

Alfred bowed and went to instruct the valet about the rest of the boxes while Rachel hurried to library. She found Dick deep in his comic book and Bruce fast asleep.

"Merry Christmas, Dick," Rachel greeted cheerfully, setting the packages on the library table. "I've brought you your present early."

"Are all those for me?" Dick sprang to his feet and hurried over to the table.

"Yes, sir. Open this one first." Rachel pushed forward a rectangular box that had a plastic handle sticking out of the top.

Dick eagerly tore off the Santa Clause paper and found himself holding a metal cage which contained a small mountain of wood chips and a black furry creature with a skinny tail. "Cool, a rat!"

"A gerbil," Rachel corrected as Bruce stirred and opened his eyes. "Good evening, sleepy head."

"Rachel. Hey." He stood up and stretched, the hair on the right side of his head sticking up at a funny angle. "What's this?"

"A gerbil," Dick explained excitedly. The cage swayed wildly as he held it up for Bruce's inspection.

"Cool. It looks like a rat."

Dick thumped the cage down and began opening the other packages. "Here's his food, and a water bottle, and one of those little wheels…"

Alfred came in, loaded with boxes. "Here are the others, Miss Dawes."

"Great. Could you just stick them on the table?"

"Alfred, Rachel gave me a gerbil for Christmas!"

"So I see," Alfred replied, less than enthusiastically.

Rachel pulled the largest box toward Dick. "Open this one next."

He did and found transparent, neon colored pieces to put together into a maze. "I can put a treat at one end, and then a ring a bell, and see how fast he can find it."

"Actually," Rachel put in delicately, "the pet store clerk said it was a girl."

Dick looked up at her, then past her, to the doorway. "Hey, Miss Somerville! Check out my new gerbil. Rachel gave him to me."

Somerville remained in the doorway and stared at the cage with pure loathing. "It looks like a rat."

"That's what everybody says!" Dick exclaimed. "Maybe that's what I should name him…her," he corrected himself. "Only it's sort of short." He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Rat starts with…rrr…what's a girl's name that starts with rrr?" His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before he exclaimed, "Rachel! Rachel the Rat, because you gave him to me." He beamed at the startled D.A.

"It does have a nice alliterative ring," Somerville added, her eyes gleaming.

"What about just Rachel?" Bruce put in hastily. "Rachel the Rat is a bit…long for such a short animal."

"Ok, Rachel Jr. so we won't get mixed up," Dick agreed.

"Why don't you take Rachel Jr. up to your room and then wash your hands for dinner?" Alfred suggested, gathering up the loose wrapping paper.

Dick grabbed the cage and raced out the door, Somerville jumping back just in time to avoid being whacked with a metal corner. "Don't drop her!" Bruce called after him.

"A little small for a watchdog, isn't it, Counselor Dawes?" Somerville asked.

Rachel eyed her coolly. "I suppose that would depend on what she's watching for."

If there were any tense silences at dinner, they were covered by Dick's happy chatter. After dinner, Somerville announced that she was going out for a while, and Bruce, Rachel, and Dick went upstairs to set up Rachel Jr.'s cage and accessories.

- - - - - -

Cecilia pulled into a Shell station and parked by the convenience store. Instead of walking into its invitingly lit interior, she walked to the edge of the parking lot and stood at the edge of the snow spotted rubble that separated the station from the neighboring movie theater.

She pulled out her cell phone and tapped in a number, then waited patiently. It took seven rings before an irritated voice demanded, "What?"

"I'm terribly sorry, did I interrupt your TV show?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, so make it fast."

"Did you know someone at Wayne Enterprises has been laundering money for the last five years?"

"The chairman put in a request for a hush hush audit today."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Really?"

"You sound pleased."

"I always love gossip."

"Anything on the kid?"

"Maybe. Give me a couple of days."

"By the way, your sister called. She said you haven't been returning her calls. She demanded to know if you were dead."

"Ah."

"Cecilia, did you block her number?...Cecilia?"

"I'll talk to you on Sunday." She hit the _End Call_ button, then entered the store and bought three packs of peanut butter M&Ms before driving back to the mansion.

As she walked toward her room, she heard shouts drifting from the floor above. Quietly mounting the stairs, she stopped at the edge of the doorway to Richard's room. A towering structure of orange, blue, and green tubes had been erected over the gerbil cage, but the constructors had momentarily lost interest in it. Bruce Wayne was flat on his back, helpless with laughter, while Rachel battered his head with a pillow and Richard bounced on his chest. Cecilia hesitated, her eyes on the animated Rachel, then she glanced again at the gerbil cage and repressed a shudder. Moving soundlessly, she retreated down the hall and passed Pennyworth, carrying a tray full of steaming mugs, on the stairs.

"Would you care for something hot to drink, Miss Somerville?"

" No thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

In her room, now heated to a comfortable eighty degrees, she pulled off her sweater and looked curiously at a velvet box that had appeared on the vanity. She picked up the accompanying white envelope which was addressed in large, almost legible writing to _Miss C. Somerville_. The note inside read _With deepest gratitude –BW_.

Inside the box rested a large pin in the shape of a golden toad. Its beady jet eyes and the diamonds and emeralds (which she had no doubt were genuine) spotting its back gleamed in hideous splendor.

It was the most expensive insult Cecilia had ever received. She sank onto the vanity stool and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

- - - - - -

_Suffocating. Frozen. Watching the shadow come closer and closer. It loomed up, taller than the sky. Its eyes flew open, glowing pools of flame. A burning hand, fire pouring from its mouth. He suddenly found that he could move and turned to run, but the flames were already licking his feet…_

Dick woke up, gasping, lying on the floor in a tangle of blankets. He stared wide-eyed around the dim room, looking. There, by the bathroom, a flutter of movement, a gleam of fire. He stared, petrified until an ominous scratching sound spurred him into action. Tearing himself out of the entangling covers, he bolted out the door and flew down the hall to burst into Bruce's room.

He stopped in dismay – the room was empty; the bed untouched and only the bedside lamp gleaming softly. His eyes fell on the switch by the bed, and he ran over to it and hit it repeatedly before dropping into a huddled ball on the floor. But no Alfred appeared.

At last, Dick, gasping like he'd just finished a marathon, crept to the door. Nothing moved in the hallway. He sprang from the room like an Olympic sprinter and raced down the stairs, swung around a corner, pushed through a door.

Somerville lay motionless beneath a mound of blankets. Dick patted her cheek frantically. "Miss Somerville!"

She stirred and groaned.

"Miss Somerville!"

"Richard?" she asked confusedly.

"Something's in my room, I saw it! And Bruce wasn't there and I rang and rang and Alfred didn't come."

She was sitting up now, turning on the lamp, fumbling for her glasses. "Richard, calm down. What was in your room, a person?"

"I…I don't know. Maybe." He blinked hard, trying not to cry.

Somerville looked at him intently, then threw back her mound of covers and climbed out of bed. "Wait here," she instructed, pausing by her coat thrown over a chair. She left the room, shutting the door behind her. Richard scrambled onto the bed and pulled the comforter up to his nose.

It seemed a very long time before she returned, leaving the door open behind her and pausing by the vanity to toss something into a drawer. "Did you find it?" whispered Dick.

"I did," she answered, "and it's not at all dangerous. Come and see."

Dick slid off the bed and grabbed on to her offered hand. They climbed the stairs slowly, and his feet grew heavier with each step. At the door to his room they stopped. "There," she said, and pointed to the bathroom.

It was still there – a dark flicker of movement, a gleam of light. Before he could do anything more than tighten his grip on her hand, she flipped the light switch. His robe hung on the bathroom door, its edge wavering in the draft from an air vent. Past the door's partially open edge, he could see the mirror reflecting light from the hall.

He protested, "But I heard…" A scrabbling interrupted him, and he turned to see Rachel Jr. leaping from one of her tunnels to the floor of her cage.

Dick let go of Somerville's hand and walked into the room, ashamed to the point of tears. "Sorry."

"For what?" she asked in a surprised voice, as she walked over to the bathroom and took down his robe. "If you wake up suddenly, it's easy to get confused between a dream and real life. You did the wise and logical thing in waking me." She handed him the robe. "Put this on." Dick obeyed silently. "You did have a dream?"

He shrugged. "I guess."

Somerville reclaimed his hand and led him out of the room and down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"The kitchen. Aren't you hungry?"

Dick considered the matter and realized that he was. In the kitchen, he climbed up on a tall stool and watched as she rummaged about, plugging in the toaster and pulling out bread. He decided she wasn't as ugly as he had thought. In her white and red striped pajamas she looked sort of like a candy cane with the curved part broken off. And with her hair in a fuzzy braid instead of a tight knot, her face looked softer, almost kind.

When Dick had a plate of cinnamon and sugar toast and a mug of hot chocolate sitting in front of him, she announced, "I'll be right back," and left. She reappeared holding the crystal and obsidian chess set that was always on display in the library. She sat down across from Dick and began to arrange the board. "I often find that a game is very relaxing before bed."

"I don't know how," Dick mumbled around a mouthful of toast.

"Then it's high time you learned. The object of the game is to capture your opponent's king. This is your king. He can move only one square at a time, but he can go in any direction."

At first, Dick was completely confused by the strangely shaped pieces with their separate sets of rules, but once he memorized the ways they could move, he found that he could hold sections of the board in his head, and try out a strategy without ever touching the real pieces. The game moved slowly because Miss Somerville carefully explained each of her own moves to Dick, touching briefly on some of the classic roles of each piece. Dick was down to his queen and a rook when Alfred walked into the kitchen, forest green bathrobe firmly tied over his pajamas.

"As much as I admire the game of chess, isn't a bit late for a match?"

"We couldn't sleep," Somerville answered, and slashed in with a bishop. "Checkmate."

Dick wrinkled his nose at the board. "Let's play again."

Somerville smothered a yawn. "Tomorrow," she promised. "Now is the time for us to return to bed."

Dick responded with a yawn of his own and hopped down from the stool. He looked at the legs of Alfred's pajamas, visible beneath his robe, then up at Somerville and back again. "Hey, you guys match!"

- - - - - -

Cecilia was still snickering when Alfred returned to the kitchen. He automatically picked up Dick's cup and plate and carried them to the sink.

"Has Richard always suffered from nightmares?" she asked.

"Not regularly. He has the occasional bad dream, but all children have those. Is that what had him up tonight?"

"Yes, he told me there was something or someone in his room. It turned out to be only the usual closet boogie augmented by that infernal creature scrabbling around in its cage, but he was seriously frightened."

Alfred turned from the sink. "I must confess that I do not understand why we set traps to keep out some rodents and make pampered pets of others."

She grimaced. "I'm with you on that one." She straightened her face and continued, "It would hardly be surprising if Richard did suffer from nightmares. He's been through a lot of trauma – children are resilient, but the mind needs some release."

"Just so," agreed Alfred, flipping off the light over the sink. "Master Wayne and I have discussed the possibility of a psychologist but…Master Dick seemed to adjust well here and seemed such a happy, normal boy that we hesitated to upset the balance."

"He has adjusted well," Cecilia agreed, following the butler from the kitchen, "but you, of all people, must realize he is far from normal."

"He is very bright."

"The boy is a mathematical genius," she stated flatly. "If I needed any further proof, I found it in the way he manipulated that chess board. But aside from that, he operates with a sense of purpose almost unbelievable in one so young. Some people go their whole lives without finding as much direction as Richard seems to have."

They reached the stairs, and Alfred mounted them with her. "I think I'll just check and see whether he's fallen asleep yet."

"You'd better check his his call button. He said he rang and rang."

When they reached her landing, she turned to him. "Mr. Pennyworth, would you wait for a moment?" She entered her room and reappeared, holding a velvet box. "Mr. Wayne gave this to me as a token of gratitude. Although I do appreciate the…thought…that went into the gift, I cannot accept something so expensive. I was hoping you might return it for me."

"If you wish." Alfred deposited the box in his pocket.

"Goodnight, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Alfred, Miss Somerville."

Deep brown eyes suddenly laughed into faded blue ones. "Cecilia, Mr. Pennyworth," she said gravely.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Thanks and huggles to all reviewers! Responses to reviews can be found by going to my bio and clicking on my homepage.

I've finally discovered the respond to reviewers function which allows me to respond to reviews by sending the reviewer a private message. However, I know that when I'm reading a story, I enjoy reading through the author's responses to other people. On the other hand, it would be more convenient for you, as the reviewer, to have it emailed to you. What would you all prefer? Please let me know in your reviews.


	14. Do you know the muffin man?

**A/N** Ha, I made it! Happy end of the year everybody!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Acknowledgement** To Jane Austen's Emma, and to the movie version starring Gwyneth Paltrow (which, I must admit, I like better than the book).

**Chapter 13**

_And I've contrived some sort of a plan to help my fellow man_

_Let's get emotional girls to all wear mood rings_

_So we'll be tipped off to when they're ticked off_

_Cause we'll know just what they're thinking..._

_Relient K_

_Saõ Paulo, Brazil – 5 years previously_

It was a sweltering night. The thin material of his t-shirt stuck to his back like a second skin; a droplet of sweat formed on his temple and trembled downwards, gathering speed as it slipped along his cheek.

He shifted against the cracked wall of the alley, trying to find a position in which the stucco didn't dig into his back. He could hear the rats burrowing in a nearby trash pile and the bass throb of the club down the street. At last settling into the nighttime pulse of the city, he slumped in uneasy slumber.

_He stood in the marble foyer of a hotel, rattling his room card against the keys in his pocket, watching the door anxiously. What if she doesn't come? She said that she would. But she has a busy life now, a life apart from… And then she appeared, her hair tousled by the wind, a crisp professional bearing that he didn't remember, a half inquisitive and half confident look that he did._

_She saw him and smiled, hurried toward him. His heart skipped, then thundered on like a joyous tympani. "Bruce! Bruce, you're home!"_

_He grinned and caught her extended hands in his. They were warm and soft but determined; he felt the rise of an archaic, chivalric impulse and longed to press them against his lips. Must be the influence of that European boarding school._

"_But why on earth are you staying in a hotel?"_

_He shrugged. "I'll only be here a couple of weeks. No point in opening up the mausoleum." The truth was that he couldn't bear to face the ghosts that flitted down those ornate hallways and haunted him sleeping and waking. "Rachel…" He stopped, still holding her hands, words inadequate to his purpose._

""_Yes?" she demanded, laughing._

_Unable to bend language to his will, or unable to find the courage to do so, he fell back on the same inanity he used every time he saw her again. "Wow, it is…really good to see you."_

A window shattered.

Bruce opened his eyes, heard a woman screaming as a brawl erupted out of the club doors.

The dream was over.

- - - - - -

Throughout the long and lonely years of his exile, he had dreamed of Rachel more times than he could begin to count. The memories were, like all those of things he valued, as painful as they were comforting. He adored her, and she had dismissed him with contempt. He had puzzled for a long time over why he had destroyed her vestige of respect for him, but at last the answer came: You couldn't be Rachel's friend, really her friend, and live a lie. She was like a clear light, cutting the darkness and holding no shadows itself.

When he had returned, after seven years of wandering, he couldn't deny that he had thought of her, had hoped that on his newfound path he could win back what he had lost that final, bitter night in Gotham.

He hadn't expected her to wait for him. He had known that she was hardly the type to lock herself in mourning, and the truth of that had been borne in upon him as, the day after his return, he watched her drop a kiss on Carl Finch's cheek.

But what he hadn't understood, until he ran into her on that parody of a night at the hotel, was that she didn't know that he had changed, and he couldn't tell her.

You couldn't, he told himself firmly, expect someone to believe in you, believe that you were "more," when they had not the slightest shred of evidence in your favor to cling to, and every reason to believe the contrary. A person who believed like that would have to be mad. Utterly mad. Worthy of Arkham's maximum security wing. And Rachel was sane, gloriously, completely sane, unswerving from her arrow-straight, crystalline path in the pursuit of Justice.

Still, the quiet mockery in her eyes and the disbelief in her voice had hurt more than he had thought possible.

And so that night, as the Narrows crumbled around them; when she said, "You could die," and he knew it was truer than she could guess; because he could not bear to die and leave her thinking ill of him; he abandoned his vow of silence.

And now? He had no idea.

- - - - - -

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The teasing question jerked Bruce out of his reverie. "A mere penny? I'm insulted."

They were sitting in front of the TV, catching the late night news in companionable silence, Dick and Rachel Jr. duly tucked into their respective beds. (It had been a bit of a struggle to convince Dick that the gerbil would _not_ like to sleep with him.)

Now Rachel stood, stretching and yawning. "I've got to get home. The Yelnats case preliminary hearing is tomorrow."

Bruce stood and followed her down the stairs. Alfred was waiting by the door, holding her coat. "Thanks, Alfred," she said, smiling as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. "Dinner was superb. As usual."

Alfred beamed, then pulled the door open. A gust of icy wind swirled around them. "Nasty night," Bruce commented.

Rachel turned to him, her eyes suddenly dark. "Bruce, be careful."

He smiled slightly but didn't answer. Rachel smiled back, then ran down the steps to her waiting car.

- - - - - -

There were ice pellets on the wind now, and Batman could feel the cold seeping through his layers of insulation. Usually, becoming chilled wasn't a problem. The extreme physical demands of his chosen occupation guaranteed that he ended each night drenched in sweat. But he had been crouched against the side of the building for nearly half an hour, struggling to hear the voices in the room on the other side of the wall, despite the screaming wind that practically pinned him to the concrete.

He readjusted the dial on the listening device yet again and replaced it against the wall, only to have his ear drum nearly blasted out as the wind abruptly dropped.

"So, you make the arrangements?"

"It'll do. I had to call in my last favor. If he damages the place, I can never set foot south of sixty-third again."

Batman could hear other voices talking raucously in the background. Apparently, these two had settled right next to the wall.

"You're already finished in this city, man. Cops got your face. You shoulda split soon as she got away."

"Run from _him_ you mean? I'll take my chances with the cops."

The other man laughed uneasily. "What's he want the place for?"

"I don't know, and I want to keep it that way. He wanted a lot of space for Sunday night. Somewhere the neighbors wouldn't ask questions if there were…unusual noises."

"Hey, you two in this hand or not?" a voice from across the room shouted.

"We're in, we're in." The two men moved toward the center of the room just as the wind picked back up. Batman pulled away from the wall. This place was too open, and he had been here too long. Confident that no one would hear him over the storm, he shot the grappling gun and hoisted himself to the rooftops.

Ready to call it a night, he headed in the general direction of the Batmobile, mind busy over the fragment of conversation he'd heard. On a routine round by the waterfront, he'd caught a glimpse of a face, pale and pinched but nevertheless recognizable from the police posters drawn at Somerville's direction. _Whoever "he" is, who wants space for Sunday night, they're plenty scared of him._

He was nearly back to the car when he heard a scream. At first, he thought it was only a trick of the wind, but it came again, and turning toward the harbor, he could just see two figures struggling on the high wall that ran along the water.

He launched himself off the higher rooftop, but the wind blew him off course. He just caught the rail guarding the wall top walkway to keep himself from being blown out to sea. Hauling himself back to firm concrete, he raced toward the fighting figures. He could see now that it was a man and a woman, the girl clawing at her attacker's face as she strove to break free.

Batman felt himself tense with anger, more than ready to interfere, but as he closed the gap, the girl rammed her knee into the attacker's groin. He groaned and slumped, and in a moment, she had climbed the rail and hurled herself toward the inky water.

Batman stopped short. _I definitely misjudged that one._

The girl's companion stumbled to the rail and seemed about to dive after the girl until an iron hand jerked him back. "Somone will have to drive to the hospital," Batman rasped. Hooking the grappling iron over the rail and hitting the release on the gun, he jumped.

The numbing cold sliced through his armor, and he clung to the gun, grimly aware that, dressed in full gear, he wouldn't be able to drag both himself and the girl to safety if he had to swim. _Where is she?_

He kicked against the waves, scanning the water around him, then went under, but it was too murky to see anything. He popped up, eyes burning with salt and pollution, and glimpsed a white hand struggling feebly above the waves only a short distance away. He lunged, his glove gripped something soft, and he hit the trigger. For a split second, he feared the freezing water had fouled the mechanism, and then they were jerked up and up to collide with the rail.

Her friend's eager hands reached down to heave her over, and Batman followed. He now had time to notice that the man wore an expensive coat open over a tux and that the streaming dress of the choking girl had probably not cost under five hundred dollars.

"Give her your coat," the Bat rasped as the erstwhile jumper gagged up a final mouthful of water. The man obediently tore off his coat and wrapped it around the girl's shaking shoulders. "You have a car?"

"Yeah." He pointed.

Batman picked up the girl and jogged in the direction indicated, the other man scrambling to keep up. They arrived at sleek vehicle, and Batman set the girl down. "Get her to a doctor. Drive safely."

The young man was fumbling for his keys. "What about…" He turned and found that they were alone.

- - - - - -

The suit was generally waterproof but not made to withstand total immersion. By the end of the drive, he was trembling so badly he could hardly steer. Turning off the engine, he popped the top, then sat shivering gratefully in the relative warmth of the cave.

Alfred had insisted on installing a sensor that alerted him when anyone entered the cavern from the outside ("After all, sir, you could bleed to death before I started wondering where you were."), and a moment later, Bruce heard footsteps. "Master Wayne?" the butler called, and then, alarmed, "Master Wayne!"

Bruce lifted his head and grinned around chattering teeth. "Ch-chose the w-wrong n-n-night f-for a s-swim."

Alfred hauled him out of the car and began unstrapping the armor. "Forgive me, sir, but what on earth possessed you?"

"G-girl j-jumped into the h-harbor." He lifted an ungloved hand to his still burning eyes.

"Filthy place. It'll be a wonder if you don't both end up poisoned." Alfred tossed a towel at him, and Bruce began rubbing his chest. "Better let me tend to those eyes, sir," the butler ordered, opening the first aid kit.

Bruce obediently tilted back his head and let Alfred squirt saline solution into his eyes. The burning intensified. "Oooow."

"Don't be such a baby. Isn't suffering in silence part of the warrior's code?"

Bruce glared at his butler. Or he would have, if his eyes hadn't been tearing so badly.

"Into the shower with you, but heat it up slowly. You could pass out and drown, and what would I ever tell Miss Somerville?"

_To Be Continued..._

**A/N** Once again, thanks to all wonderful reviewers for your effort and time! And to all you lurkers…and I KNOW you're there, no way can the reviewers account for all the hits this story gets…shame on you for not contributing a little criticism to improve the general welfare.

The consensus on review responses seems to be that people either don't care or would rather have them posted on a single page. It's also a bit easier for me to do it that way. SO…

Responses to reviews may, as always, be found by going to my bio and clicking on my homepage.


	15. The muffin man?

**A/N** I meant to have this up days ago, but it was one of those chapters that refused to come together. But it turned out to be nearly double the usual length, so it's really like two for the price of one!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Acknowledgement** This chapter is indebted to Dorothy Dunnett's The Chronicles of Lymond whose mystical and bizarre portrait of a psychic this chapter does not emulate.

**Chapter 14**

"_Have you at last unearthed a flower that suits you?"_

"_I think not," she said. "It's only just opened. It ought to have a chance to bloom."_

_The woman's eyebrows rose. "One visit to my garden is more than many mortals gain. You will not have another chance to pick a rose."_

"_Then I'll make up my life as I go along, the way everybody else does."_

"_Roses by Moonlight"_

His head was throbbing to the beat of its own drum. Bruce groaned and rolled over, squinting at the clock. _9:15? Why am I awake? Why?_ He tried to swallow and discovered that his throat was swollen enough to make the action painful. Lifting a leaden arm, he smacked the button by his bed. _Maybe Alfred has a miracle cure._ Minutes passed but no Alfred appeared. _Some days, there's just no point in being a billionaire_. He stood and groaned as a fresh wave of pain surged in his head. Vaguely remembering that orange juice was recommended for colds, he trudged downstairs.

When he reached the kitchen, he stopped and leaned against the doorway, feeling dizzy. His butler was watering the violets on the windowsill. "Alfred," Bruce rasped, "I think I'm coming down with something."

Alfred swung around. "Master Wayne! Why didn't you ring?"

"I did." Bruce closed his eyes. His head hurt less that way.

"The bell doesn't work," piped a small voice.

Bruce squinted. "Hey, Dick." Somerville was sitting across the counter from the boy, and they were…_Playing chess?_

"Hey, Bruce. You look sick."

Alfred was standing next to him now, examining him critically. "I think, sir, that you should go back to bed. I will phone Dr. Miller immediately."

Bruce scowled. "I don't need a doctor. Just give me some aspirin or something."

Alfred's face took on a look of longsuffering patience. "Back to bed, sir," he repeated, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder and guiding him out of the kitchen.

"I don't need a doctor."

An hour and a half later, Dr. Miller was repacking his bag. "It's a nasty cold, but nothing to worry about. Get some rest, drink a lot of fluids, and," he looked disapprovingly over the rims of his glasses, "absolutely no more midnight swimming."

"Thank you for coming, Doctor," Alfred escorted the doctor to the front door.

"Yes, well I rarely make house calls anymore, but for the son of Thomas Wayne an exception is in order. Although, I'm afraid he hasn't turned out very like his father."

"He's got more of his father in him than you might think," Alfred protested, despite his better judgment. "And you have to admit, Thomas Wayne left some pretty big shoes to fill."

The doctor's expression softened. "Yes, I would find them intimidating myself. Make certain he stays in bed for at least the rest of today."

When Alfred returned to the bedroom, he found his employer sulking against the pillows. Paying no attention to the irate glare sizzling in his direction, he busied himself with tidying up the room. "Wasn't it fortunate that Dr. Miller could come so quickly? An old colleague of your father's, of course."

"I'm not talking to you," Bruce grated.

"An excellent idea, sir. You should try to conserve your voice."

- - - - - -

"Checkmate," Cecilia said.

Richard looked proudly at the row of white pieces he had captured. "I did a lot better that time."

"You did," she agreed, clearing the board and flipping it over to store the pieces in its hollow interior.

"Can't we play one more time?" he pleaded.

"Perhaps later. Right now, I need to go into town."

Alfred entered the kitchen, balancing an empty juice glass on a silver tray. "Finished with your game?"

"Yep." Richard hopped down from his stool. "Can I go see Bruce?"

"I am afraid Master Bruce is supposed to be resting. In addition to which, he is supposed to avoid excessive talking."

"Oh. Where are you going?"

"I am going to clip dead leaves off the plants in the pool room."

"Can I help?"

"It's rather boring work, I'm afraid. Why don't you play with Rachel Jr.?"

"She's asleep. I'm not supposed to wake her up until afternoon. Rachel said she's nocturne."

"Nocturnal," Alfred corrected.

"I'm going into town to do some shopping. Richard may accompany me if he likes," Cecilia offered.

"Sure," the boy agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Alfred nodded his approval. "You'll borrow one of the cars, of course. Or would you prefer to be driven?"

"Ah…" she hesitated. "Not that I am ungrateful for the offer, but in view of what happened the last time I drove one of Mr. Wayne's cars, I think I'd prefer something a little less…noticeable. My own car will be fine."

"Understandable. I…did take the liberty of having our own mechanic go over it. He tuned up the brakes."

Irritation flashed across her face, but she smoothed it into a polite smile. "That was kind of you, Mr. Pennyworth."

The Chevy was heated and waiting for them as they bundled up in the front hall. "Hadn't you better put on another sweatshirt?" Cecilia demanded, as she tugged the edges of her coat around the marshmallow effect of her own layers.

"I'm already too hot," Dick complained, pulling his mittens back off and sticking them in his pocket.

She looked doubtful but allowed him to precede her out to the car. They sped along the road in silence, Richard staring out the window and Cecilia paying particular attention to her rearview mirror. She suddenly swung across two lanes and entered a freeway ramp.

"Richard, do you know whether Mr. Wayne's put a security tail on you?"

"You mean like a bodyguard?"

"Yes."

"I don't think so."

Cecilia glanced again at the silver Century that had hung with them through her sudden maneuver onto the freeway. "All right then. Your seatbelt fastened?"

"Yep."

She hit the accelerator and the car leapt forward. She smoothly wove in and out of traffic toward the right lane as the speedometer crept up to ninety. Not bothering with her turn signal, she hurtled off on the first exit they came to, only reducing speed when it seemed inevitable they would collide with the car ahead of them. _The mechanic did a nice job on the brakes_. When the light turned green, she drove at a sedate pace until they reached a subdivision.

"Where are we going?" Richard asked as they wound their way around blocks of neat suburban homes.

"A peddler's market," she answered, "but we're taking the scenic route."

Ten minutes later they were back on the freeway and speeding into the city with no sign of the Century. _Amateurs. I wonder who they were?_

The enormous market building took up half of the strip mall. Cecilia held open the cloudy glass door and allowed Richard to precede her. The inside was dim and smelled of dust. A hum of voices arose from the maze of sellers' stalls, underscored by the creaking of the ancient wooden floor.

Richard darted ahead toward a stall fronted by a dummy in a top hat and long black cloak. When Cecilia caught up, a white haired man was pulling a long, silken, red and black scarf from the boy's ear. When the material at last came to an end, he shook it out and draped the cloak around his shoulders. He smiled benevolently at the wide-eyed Richard. "Genuine magic articles, all previously owned by real circus magicians."

"Do you have one of those hats you can pull a rabbit out of?" Richard looked excitedly at Cecilia. "I could do tricks with Rachel Jr.!"

"A gerbil," Cecilia said in response to the vendor's questioning look.

"I have just the thing." He rummaged on his cluttered shelves, then produced a miniature version of his own headgear. "Constructed for short people and small rabbits…or gerbils."

It had obviously been well used, but Richard wasn't looking at the water stain on the brim or the fraying threads at the crown as he took the hat and peered inside. "How does it work?"

"Now that I cannot tell you unless you buy it. Only the hat's owner must know the secret of its magic."

Richard's face fell. "I guess I don't have any money. Thanks anyway." He started to hand the hat back.

"No money? That's a pity. But I've got a funny feeling this hat's supposed to go to you. Perhaps the fine lady escorting you could lend you a bit? It's very reasonably priced."

The boy looked uncertainly up at Cecilia, who returned his look thoughtfully. "I'll make you a deal, Richard. I'll give you the money, and in exchange, you will read to me thirty minutes of every day for the rest of the time that I'm here."

He looked dismayed. "_Thirty_ minutes? Every _day_?"

"Ah now, what a bargain!" the vendor exclaimed. "To get a magic hat fine as this for such a simple thing as reading? I wouldn't pass it up, lad."

Richard looked up through narrowed eyes. "I'll read for thirty minutes if you'll play three chess games."

Cecilia folded her arms. "One."

"Two."

"Done."

The vendor laughed. "That's a sharp boy you have, madam." Cecilia handed over the cash, and he tucked it away before bending down to Richard's eye level. "Here's how you work the hat." He stopped and looked up. "If you wouldn't mind stepping back a bit? Only the owner of the hat can hear its secret."

Cecilia obediently stepped over to the next stall while the magician whispered to Richard and positioned his hands on the hat. They both peered into the hat, then Richard nodded and grinned. He plopped the hat on his head and hurried over to Cecilia, and they resumed their wandering down the passageway. Many of the stalls were filled with secondhand books or house wares, but there were quite a few that held what Cecilia privately termed "circus junk." One woman displayed spangled leotards and tarnished silver cloaks. A young man tossed tea cups in the air while his shelves displayed balls, plastic clubs, ornate knives, and "How to" books on juggling. The only time Richard showed anything other than lively curiosity was when they strolled past a stall displaying neon colored wigs and grotesquely sized shoes. Then, he abruptly stepped behind Cecilia to put her between himself and the display and walked so close that his head rested against her arm.

They'd been wandering for nearly an hour when the alluring smell of coffee rose over the dust. A lunch counter and a few small tables were tucked into a corner of the enormous building. Cecilia was about to suggest a hot chocolate break when a creaking voice interrupted, "Know the future! Get your fortune told."

The fortune teller, smothered in scarves and bangles, sat on a low stool at the edge of the informal café. Before her, on a tiny tripod, rested a crystal ball. "Lady, would you not like to know what changes await you in the coming year?" Scanning Cecilia's unresponsive face, the woman tried a new tack. "Or the boy's? Shall we see what he will be when he grows up? A famous astronaut, perhaps, or a great…" She trailed off, leaning forward to peer at Richard's face. "Dicky?" she demanded, her crone's cackle morphing into a normal, female voice. "Little Dicky Grayson, it can't be!"

Richard broke into a huge grin, "Hey, Miss Molly!"

She sprang up from her stool and pulled him into a hug, knocking his hat off. "I didn't know whether I would ever see you again!" She gently cupped her palm around his cheek. "I know about your mother. I'm so very sorry."

Richard looked at her for a moment, then buried his face among her scarves. She held him close, gently patting his hair. After a minute, Richard pulled back, furtively wiping his cheek on his sleeve. "It's nice to see you, Miss Molly."

"It's very nice to see you too." The fortune teller looked questioningly at Cecilia who was standing quietly by, holding the magic hat.

Cecilia extended her hand. "Cecilia Somerville. I'm Richard's case worker."

"Molly Mercer." The fortune teller's grip was firm and warm. "I was a friend of Richard's parents. Why don't we sit down and have some tea?"

A black cat shot out of nowhere and pressed itself against Molly's legs. "There you are, Dis! I was beginning to wonder." She scooped the cat up and allowed it to rub its head against her chin. "Dis, meet Dicky, a very old friend." The cat sniffed at Richard's outstretched hand, then leaped from Molly's arms to the floor and ran off. "There he goes again." Molly shook her head. "There's a cute little bookstall calico that will probably be great with kittens any day."

She continued to chatter about her philandering cat while they waited for their drinks. It was only when Richard had a mustache of whipped cream that she asked, "So Dicky, where do you live now?"

"With Bruce." He licked his upper lip. "And Alfred. And Rachel Jr. She's a gerbil. I'm going to do a trick with her in my magic hat. It's not really magic," he added gravely. "There isn't any real magic."

Molly sighed softly. "Yes, you would know that, wouldn't you? Who is Bruce?"

"He owns everything. We have two swimming pools and a gym. But it's mostly Alfred who's in charge. Everyone has to do what he says, even Bruce. But Bruce reads to me about spaceships and we practice karate."

Molly looked at Cecilia. "Is he by any chance referring to Bruce Wayne, Gotham's pet billionaire?"

"One and the same," she answered, smiling faintly.

Molly sniffed. "Hardly a proper person to be raising a child."

"No, it's ok," Richard assured her earnestly, "because Bruce is really B…" He broke off and scrunched up his nose. "Brave," he resumed, "and nice. And he makes me go to school."

"As he should," Molly put in, and looked ready to start an interrogation when Cecilia gave a startled exclamation. Dis had reappeared and was twining himself around the social worker's ankles, purring like an air conditioner. "He approves of you," Molly said.

Dis rose on his hind legs and set his paws on her knee, so Cecilia obligingly picked him up and settled him on her lap. "He does seem to be friendly."

"He's usually a snob. Very picky about his friends. Dis is short for Discretion."

"I'm honored."

The next moment, the cat leapt from Cecilia's arms and scrambled to the top of the tin overhang on the lunch counter. "Oh dear," sighed Molly, "Susan does get upset when he's up there. Particularly when the health inspector is due." She reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a fish-shaped biscuit. Handing it to Richard, she asked, "Would you go over and hold this up to him? He'll come to you. Eventually."

Richard took the treat and walked to wave it as close to Dis's nose as he could get. "Here, kitty-kitty."

"Bruce Wayne," said Molly. "It's hard to believe."

"There was a clause in Charles Grayson's contract with Wayne Enterprises that made the company responsible for his family should anything happen to him."

"So it was Wayne Enterprises he was working for. It was obvious they lived on more than circus pay, but you don't ask too many questions. And yes, that sounds like something Charles would do." Molly shook her head. "In some ways he was so intelligent, and in others he didn't have the sense of a baby. He would have done better to take out a life insurance policy. The pittance Robyn had to scrape by on!"

"How did he die?"

Molly looked surprised. "Don't you know?" Then she answered herself. "No, I don't suppose you would. Dicky was too young to remember, and Robyn…Robyn wouldn't have told him. Not yet." She sighed deeply. "I don't suppose it does any harm to tell you. They were an act, you know, the two of them on the trapeze. The Flying Graysons they were advertised. They used to talk about the day when Dicky would be old enough to join them. But for several days before…Charles was even more nervous than usual. He was always jumpy, but it was worse. And then there was the incident with the monkey." Molly's face grew dark with the memory. "There was a whole act with the monkeys, but one of them, the littlest, was Dicky's special favorite. He used to sit for hours making faces at it. On that day, he was at the cage. The trainer swears he stepped away for a minute…just a minute to get some more feed. He wasn't worried. There was nobody in the circus who would have hurt that little boy. But when he was coming back he heard Dicky screaming. In the minute or two he was gone, someone had taken the littlest monkey out the cage. They'd driven a tent peg right through it into the ground, doused it with oil, and set it on fire. And that night…the trapeze bar snapped. Charles broke his neck. The police said it was an accident, but we all knew that someone had tampered with it." Molly sighed and closed her eyes.

Cecilia toyed with the rim of her coffee cup. "What happened then?"

"We buried him the next morning, and by evening, Robyn and Dicky were gone. She didn't tell anyone where they were going, and nobody went after her. Not that we didn't care, but we figured she knew what she was doing. Besides, we had problems of our own. The circus wasn't doing well before, and a murder is as good as a curse." Molly smiled wanly. "We circus folk are a superstitious lot, and most of us drifted away as soon as we could. I felt very sorry for Mr. Haley, but…that was how it was."

"But you found Robyn again."

"Yes. Most circuses winter in the south, but I've got family up here. Anyway, Robyn was wandering around this very place, and I suppose it was inevitable that we ran into each other. After that, I went to see her as often as I could. If it wasn't too cold, she would bring Dicky to the park, or we would wander around a shopping mall or the library. She wouldn't bring him here, she was too afraid this would be a place someone would come looking for her." Molly chuckled. "Like a tigress with her cub. All she thought about was protecting him. I remember, after we first met up, she was working on a blanket for him - she could do beautiful embroidery. She'd sit stitching and say it was a security blanket, that she'd sewn in charms against evil and blessings for the future."

With a soft growl, Dis at last yielded to temptation and leapt to the ground by Richard's feet. The boy scooped him up and proudly toted the beast back to the table. Before he reached them, Molly leaned closer and whispered urgently, "Warn Mr. Wayne. People have been asking questions about the Graysons. And so has the Batman."

Cecilia looked startled, but Richard was back, a hissing cat in his arms. Molly reclaimed her pet. "Dis, mind your manners." Smiling, she stood. "I need to get back to work. I can predict just how hungry my future will be if I don't."

"Can you really tell the future, Miss Molly?"

"Sometimes. Give me your palm and we'll see what I can do." She settled on her stool with the cat on her lap and took his outstretched hand. "Mmm, yes, it's very clear." She stuck out a well-manicured finger and gently traced the lines. "You will live long and well. You will be brave and good and wise."

"How can you tell that when there's not really magic?" Richard demanded.

Molly looked affronted. "It's not magic, it's science! Heredity," she added in a softer tone.

"Oh." Richard nodded understandingly. "That's different. Maybe you should tell Miss Somerville's future too," he added, trying to be polite.

"If she would like," Molly agreed, sending the social worker a curious look.

Cecilia stared back, then extended her right hand. The fortune teller looked for a long moment at the lurid scars crippling the fingers, then shook her head. "I would not presume to read this."

"Why not?" Richard demanded.

Molly adjusted her scarves and resumed the creaking tone of mystery with which she had first greeted them. "Her future is as impenetrable as the western horizon after the sun has set. A dark night."

Richard looked impressed. "That's very interesting."

"Come along, Richard," Cecilia said firmly. "We should be getting back." She looked at Molly. "I can claim no psychic powers, but I think you would have better luck in a different location."

Molly met her eyes evenly. "I understand."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Chocolate covered thanks to all reviewers! And a special welcome to those of you who reviewed for the first time ;)

IcyWaters mentioned that she enjoys reading other people's reviews as well as my responses to them. Since I'd also been thinking that it might be hard to understand the response if you'd forgotten what you'd put in your review, I have pasted in everybody's reviews before their respective responses. Let me know how the format works!

Furthermore, I'm suffering from a sunburn induced fever. Reviews are better than Tylenol!

Responses to reviews can be found by going to my bio and clicking on my homepage.


	16. The muffin man

**A/N** I hate this chapter! I've been working on it for days and days and it hasn't been going anywhere…Sniff. deep breath, counts to ten

So, on the bright side, there's a little extra bonus included for your reading pleasure. Woven into the text of this chapter are three direct quotes from three different movies. The first person to identify all three and PM me with both the quotes and the movies they come from will win a special prize! Yay! I feel like Vana White! In the unlikely event that no one gets all three (they're really not that hard…at least, I don't think they are), the person who gets the most the fastest wins. Do NOT post answers in your reviews. (So that everyone does their own work.)

**Disclaimer**

Me: MINE! MINE! MINE!

DC Comics Lawyer: NO! NO! NO!

**Acknowledgement** To my screenwriting professor, who taught me that writing crap is better than not writing at all.

**Chapter 15**

_Words, words, words! I'm so sick of words!_

_I get words all day through, first from him, now from you!_

_Is that all you blighters can do?_

_My Fair Lady_

"Miss Somerville, why don't you tell me exactly what happened this afternoon."

Cecilia settled back in her chair and eyed the owner of Wayne Manor. Dressed in sweat pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, hair tousled, and cheeks lit with an unhealthy flush, he ought to have been in bed. But he sat upright in his chair, glaring at her with all the force his fever bright eyes could muster. Obviously, he had already decided everything was her fault.

"There's really not much to tell. On the way to the mall, I noticed a car that seemed to be following our movements, but it disappeared when we left the freeway, and I decided that I had been mistaken. When we left the market, the same car was parked next to us, and two men were leaning against the hood."

She paused, looking faintly embarrassed. Wayne's eyes narrowed. "And then?"

"I'm afraid I overreacted."

- - - - - -

_Earlier that afternoon_

She grabbed Richard's hand. "Run!" They spun around and darted through a narrow passageway between the side of the peddler's market and next door drug store. The area behind the mall was a maze of crates and boxes. Cecilia stuck to the backsides of the buildings, dragging Richard behind her until they came to a fire safety ladder built into the wall. "Up," she commanded, thrusting him before her, then scrambling up after him and pushing him flat on the roof.

Footsteps pounded behind them and a voice called, "Hey, lady, we just want to talk!"

Cecilia peeked over the edge and glimpsed the two men plunging into the maze of crates. She stripped off her watch and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. "If you hear anything strange, or if I'm not back in seven minutes, call Alfred or Mr. Wayne. Tell them we're at the strip mall on Crescent Street and that we need the police."

"Shouldn't I go with…"

"No," she said firmly. "Stay here and don't make a sound."

He looked like he wanted to protest, but subsided beneath her threatening glare. "Where are you going?"

"They said they wanted to talk, so we're going to talk." She slipped down the ladder and around a stack of crates. Certain she was out of Richard's sight, she felt under her generous padding of sweaters and produced a Beretta 9 mm. Cocking her head, she listened intently, then began picking her silent way through the maze.

"Maybe we should split up," the one in the gray overcoat suggested as he and his companion stood by the corner of an enormous packing box." His friend opened his mouth to agree, but the only sound that emerged was a strangled squeak as the cold muzzle of a gun was jammed against the base of his skull.

"Who are you?" Cecilia rasped, invisible around the side of the box.

The man at the other end of her gun threw up his hands. "Reporters. Just reporters from the _Gossip_."

She twisted the gun against his neck. "ID. But move slowly."

With trembling hands, the man dug out a wallet and offered it over his shoulder. She snatched it and flipped it open to reveal a press pass. After a quick moment of examination, she shoved it into his coat pocket. "So, Mr. Denton. What are you doing here?"

"We just wanted to ask a couple of questions. Maybe get a picture of the kid."

"Look, Mr. Denton, do you remember what happened to the guy last year who just wanted to ask a couple of questions?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," the reporter stuttered.

"Learn from history, Mr. Denton."

"Did Mr. Wayne make sure you had a license before he gave you that gun?"

"Mr. Wayne? I don't work for Mr. Wayne. And the people who pay me are not going to be pleased to find out you've been interfering. So get your friend and get out." She pulled the gun from his head and he took off like an Olympic sprinter. She followed just enough to make sure that both men returned to their car. As they sped away, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to make her hands stop shaking.

The gun again safely stowed beneath her sweaters, she walked back to the ladder. "It's all right, Richard." The boy's head popped over the edge of the roof. "How long was I gone?"

"Six minutes and thirty-two seconds." He scrambled down the ladder. "Who were those guys?"

"Just a couple of reporters. I told them we didn't want to answer any questions."

- - - - - -

Bruce hadn't enjoyed himself so much since Somerville first set foot in Wayne Manor. "Let me get this straight," he began, deliberately emphasizing the disbelief in his tone. "You saw two strange men you thought might have followed you from the Manor driveway. You grabbed Richard and, instead of running back into the building where the crowd would have provided safety, you dragged him to a deserted area and stuck him on a roof. You then proceeded to, all by yourself, confront two men who might very well have been dangerous?"

Somerville looked a little flushed. "I do not claim that my conduct was the most reasonable course of action. After the events of last Wednesday, I was…prone to overreaction."

"Overreaction? Overreaction! Overreaction means being extremely cautious, not acting in an irrational and irresponsible manner which actually increased the risk to the life of my ward! Miss Somerville, are you quite certain you are qualified to determine the futures of Gotham's children?"

He gleefully anticipated the expression of rage and the hail of sharp words that would mean that he had, at last, gotten under her skin. But instead of drawing her mouth into a prim line and shooting an icy glare through her wire rimmed glasses, her face fell into an expression that, had it been worn by anyone else, he would have called humble.

"Mr. Wayne, you are quite right to question my competency. I took very poor care of Richard today, and I'm sorry."

Bruce stared at her in mute outrage. Insults were not supposed to provoke her into apologizing.

"I think it is apparent," she continued, "that I lack the experience to deal with the situations that arise around the ward of a billionaire in Gotham City. It would be best if Richard and I did not go out alone again."

Bruce smiled over gritted teeth. "I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Somerville. But…thank you…for your…understanding."

- - - - - -

"Time to get out, Master Dick," Alfred called over the sound of splashing.

Dick spouted pool water like a whale and climbed up the ladder to grab the towel Alfred held out. "Alfred, can I ask you a question?"

At the serious tone in the boy's voice, Alfred set down his stack of towels and gave Dick his full attention. "Certainly."

"When I was talking to miss Molly today, she said she didn't think Bruce was a proper person to raise a child. And I wanted to show her he's really a good guy, and I almost told her…you know."

"But you didn't."

Dick hung his head. "I almost did."

Alfred laid a gentle hand on his towel-clad shoulder. "It's often a temptation for me as well. Because I know what a good man he is, I sometimes just want to shout it out, so that everyone will know. But you have to understand that having everyone think well of him is something that Master Wayne chose to give up. And we don't have the right to interfere with that choice, as much as we would sometimes like to."

"It's important to keep it a secret so that the bad guys won't find him, right?"

"Yes, and to keep us safe, too." Alfred watched the boy gravely. "Nothing would hurt Master Wayne so much as having bad things happen to the people he cares about."

"Like when my mom…like when my mom died, and I wished it was me instead."

"Yes. Like that."

Dick scowled fiercely. "I won't tell, Alfred, not ever."

"I know you won't." The butler smiled and rose. "And now it is time to dress for bed." He guided the boy toward the door.

Upstairs, after Alfred had mopped up the bathwater and Dick was safely in his pajamas, the boy asked, "Hey, Alfred, can I ask you another question?"

"Of course."

"What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?"

Alfred almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes. "I haven't the faintest earthly conception."

"A sparrow with a machine gun!" Dick shrieked, and collapsed onto his bed, laughing hysterically.

Alfred patiently waited for the hysteria to end before saying, "And now it is time for me to ask you a question."

"Yeah?"

"Who is Miss Molly?"

- - - - - -

Bruce froze, one hand suspended over his computer mouse. "What?"

"Yes, sir, a friend of Robyn Grayson whom Dick refers to as Miss Molly. Apparently, he and Miss Somerville had quite a lengthy conversation with her. I take it Miss Somerville failed to mention the encounter?"

"She most certainly did." Bruce stood up, sending his wheeled desk chair slamming against the wall. "And I'm going to find out why."

"Not to sound trite, but perhaps you didn't ask her."

Bruce stared at him in disbelief. "A technicality that will shortly be remedied."

"I only meant that she may not have realized what significance the meeting held. And I'm afraid she's retired."

"What?" the master of Wayne Manor growled.

"She's gone to bed."

"She can get up again."

"Much as I sympathize with your desire to obtain the information as soon as possible, I feel compelled to point out that if you drag her out of bed by the roots of her hair, she will hardly feel inclined to be informative. Besides which, it will be a very black mark on your evaluation. But Master Dick is still awake if you would like to talk to him."

Bruce raked both his hands through his hair. "Alfred, I'm getting really, really tired of all this."

"Only eight more days, sir."

"Eight eternal days."

- - - - - -

Dick's bedside lamp was on and the boy was lying on his side, staring intently at something when Bruce pushed open the door. "Hey."

"Hey," Dick answered, "look."

Bruce followed the pointing finger. "What…The curtains?"

"No, Rachel Jr. She's crawling through the tunnel on her back."

Bruce's gaze dropped to the cage below the window. "Acrobatic rat."

"Gerbil."

"Right," Bruce agreed seriously. "Alfred says you ran into an old friend today."

"Miss Molly. She used to visit me and my mom sometimes."

"Did she work at the same circus as your mom?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Hey, do you think Rachel Jr. would like to live in a circus?"

When another couple of questions produced no information other than that Dick's mind was completely taken up with his gerbil, Bruce gave up and switched off the lamp. "Good night, Dick."

"Good night. Hey, Bruce? What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?"

Fifteen seconds later, an irritated Bruce strode down the hall, the hysterical howling of his highly amused ward following him. _Kids_. Once again in his study, he slumped down in front of the computer and pulled up Google. Within a few minutes, he had half a dozen articles and advertisements describing the unique flea market visited by Dick and Somerville. _For professional and amateur collectors of circus paraphernalia...Got the winter blues? Chase them away with the spirit of a summer carnival...A unique and delightful shopping opportunity..._

Bruce sighed and clicked off his monitor. _All those months of investigating circuses, and the answer was right across town. And how did she know right where to look?_

"Any luck, sir?" Alfred's voice broke into Bruce's reverie.

"No. I didn't get anything more out of him than you found out. But tomorrow I'm going to that mall. After I talk to Somerville." He stood up and walked over to the piano.

"Not to be intrusive, sir, but where are you going?"

Bruce hit the three dissonant chords. "Out."

"Clearly you are determined to contract pneumonia."

"I don't have time to get sick, Alfred. I'll see you tomorrow."

_To Be Continued..._

**A/N** So, yeah. Lame, but it's over! We can move on to bigger and better things! My personal goal is to get the next chapter up by next Monday, which just happens to be a very special day. Huge Kudos (but no prizes) to anyone who knows what it is! See you then!

Responses to reviews can be found by clicking on my bio and visiting my homepage.


	17. Yes, I know the muffin man

**A/N** Rats, it's after midnight. Oh well:

Happy late birthday to you!

Happy late birthday to you!

Happy late birthday

CHRISTIAN BALE!

Happy late birthday to you!

Yes, I am a fangirl. It's a sad, sad fact of life.

And in other news…Apparently, I totally misjudged the difficulty of the hidden quotes in the last chapter. CONGRATULATIONS to IcyWaters who was the only person to correctly identify one. As our grand prize winner, and in the time honored tradition of the Adam West Batman show, she will be featured in a cameo in an upcoming chapter! If you're curious, all three quotes are identified at the end of this chapter.

**Disclaimer** I may not own Batman, but I can still wish him a Happy (if belated) Birthday!

**Acknowledgement** For my sister, who regrets that she was not christened Bubbles.

**Chapter 16**

_There comes a time in every man's life when he must take his father's advice. I shall go to bed at once._

_An Ideal Husband_

"We don't know for certain, but we think this is the car she'll be driving." Gatsby pushed a digital photo across the desk. "We'll let you know when she leaves. Intercept her, find out what she knows, and kill her. Leave her for the Bat to find. Any questions?"

The lurid mouth in the bleached face twisted its mocking smile. "No, my lord. Your chattel is, as always, ready to do your will."

Gatsby slowly folded his slender hands on top of the desk. "I am going to remind you one last time that the only reason you can even sit in that chair is because I willed it. I gave you a smile of gratitude. You would do well to live up to it, or you may find that my use for you has come to an end."

An expression of fury contorted the already freakish face, but the Joker remained silent as he rose and flourished a bow. After he had gone, Gatsby continued to stare thoughtfully at the now empty chair. _In the golden days of the American trapper, they say a beaver would gnaw off it's own foot before allowing itself to remain caught in a trap._ A soft knock interrupted his reverie. "Come in."

The door opened and Carlos Morales walked into the room. "Señor Gatsby, I apologize for disturbing you."

"Not at all. I trust your stay remains comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you. But you will forgive me if I complain of a little boredom."

"For your own safety, your options for entertainment must remain limited."

"Yes, I am flattered by your concern. But I understand your smiling protégée has an interesting errand tonight."

"Routine, really."

"I was hoping I might accompany him. It would interest me to see how these things are done in…what is the phrase… 'the American way.'"

"Far be it from me to stand in the way of international cooperation. But I must warn you that he might object."

Morales smiled. "When one performs, one always wishes for an audience."

Gatsby steepled tapering fingers beneath his chin. "Very true."

- - - - - -

Alfred was dusting the piano in his shirtsleeves – a sure sign of agitation. The thought of Bruce darting around the darker corners of Gotham with both a cape and a fever was causing him decided pangs of anxiety, and he was up long past his usual hour to retire for the first half of his night. (He was always up in the small hours of the morning to see that Bruce got safely to bed. They had installed a series of sensors along the way to and at the waterfall entrance to the caverns, not only to guard against the faint chance of an intruder, but so that Alfred would know when the Bat himself flew home. "After all, sir, you could bleed to death down there before I even started to wonder where you were.")

When the screaming began, Alfred froze, then realized there was only one person in the mansion who could be making such a noise. Catching up a heavy silver candlestick, he ran out into the corridor and up the stairs at a speed worthy of a man half his age.

Dick was sitting bolt upright in bed, his eyes staring at some invisible horror, his open mouth vibrating with chilling noise. The threat could obviously not be coshed with a blunt object. Alfred dropped the candlestick and grabbed the boy's shoulders. "Master Dick, wake up!"

It took repeated shaking and calling, but at last the shriek stopped and the glazed dream eyes snapped into focus. The alert boy took one look at Alfred and dissolved into sobs.

"There, there, young master, it was just a dream. It's all over now," the elderly man crooned repeated as Dick's tears soaked the side of his shirt.

Eventually the boy's sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths. "Where's Bruce?"

Alfred sighed. "I'm afraid he's gone out."

Dick kept his head pressed the butler's side, but lifted a sleeve to wipe his nose. "I can't find my blanket. I looked and looked."

Wondering whether the missing blanket had been part of the dream, Alfred gently pulled away from the boy and began through the covers. When no blanket appeared, he got down on his knees and checked beneath the bed, then investigated the closet, but with no luck. "Extraordinarily odd," he said, frowning and kneeling by the bed. "Did you take it out of your room?"

Dick hiccupped and shook his head.

"Then it must have been accidentally sent with the sheets," Alfred said firmly, even though the upstairs maid had always been very careful to put only sheets in the laundry bags. "It will be back first thing in the morning. How about a cup of tea?"

Dick's sobs showed signs of starting up again, but he put out his hand and let the butler pull him off the bed. They walked out into the hall, and Dick gave a happy shriek. "There it is!" Folded into a neat square, the tattered blanket lay on the floor next to the bedroom door. It had certainly not been there when Dick had been put to bed.

"Extraordinarily odd," Alfred said again.

- - - - - -

"What do you mean she's not here?" Bruce demanded.

"This morning she said she was going to mass, and I haven't heard from her since."

"Naturally. The one time she's actually wanted she disappears. Just…call me when she gets back. I'm going to go and look for that fortune teller."

The peddler's mall was crowded and noisy with Sunday afternoon shoppers. Half an hour's brisk striding through the creaking aisles failed to locate the gypsy, but a few casually put questions (and the purchase of an expensive piece of junk), elicited the information that a fortune teller was usually to be found near the café.

He found the café, but "Miss Molly," or at least, Miss Molly in her distinctive costume, was nowhere to be seen. Bruce sauntered up to the lunch counter and ordered a cup of coffee. His hoarse voice earned him a look of sympathy from the proprietress, and he tried out one of his more persuasive smiles. "I hate being sick. Wish I could find someone to predict when this cold will be over."

The smile proved effective. The proprietress, middle-aged though she was, flushed. "You're just a day too late. Used to be a professional right around the corner there, but she's moved on. Said she'd have better luck elsewhere."

Bruce wanted to send his coffee cup smashing against her pristine counter top. Instead he smiled his thanks and turned toward one of the tables.

"I realize this sounds like a line," his unwitting informant called after him. "But have I seen you before."

He shrugged. "Who knows? It's a small world." He sat down and stared glumly at his mug until an abandoned copy of yesterday's newspaper caught his eye.

_**BATMAN SAVES GOTHAM SOCIALITE**_

_This morning, at approximately 3 AM, Gotham received yet another errand of mercy from its mysterious caped crusader. Miss Audrey Williams (22), daughter of Gladelands Corporation vice president Andrew Williams, hurled herself from the Shore Walk. According to her escort, Mr. David Riley (24), Williams had _

Bruce stopped reading. _That was Bubbles?_ The pale, shaken girl on the Walk had borne very little resemblance to the image of a saucy party girl he associated Audrey "Bubbles" Williams. Before he could scan the rest of the article, his phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he checked the number and lifted it to his ear. "Is Somerville back?"

"No, sir. But I can tell you where you'll be able to find her this evening. Mr. Judas just called. Apparently, he wants Miss Somerville to attend the Gotham Holiday Charity Ball this evening and help represent the Hearts and Homes association."

"Am I going to the Gotham whatsit Ball?"

"You have a ticket, sir, yes."

"And we certainly wouldn't want to put an added strain on the environment by driving two cars for two people who have the same destination."

"That was my thought, sir."

"Thank you, Alfred."

"You're welcome, Master Wayne. I'll have your suit ready."

- - - - - -

"It was kind of you to give me a ride, Mr. Wayne. I should have hated driving in this weather." Somerville cast a disapproving glance out the window, as if the heavens had conspired to sleet particularly for her annoyance.

"Typical weather for this time of year, I'm afraid." Bruce, hands shoved inside his coat pockets, slouched in his seat across from her. "But I think you mentioned you came from a warmer climate?"

"Columbia."

It really was. Bruce had had his uninvited guest discreetly, but thoroughly, checked out. But the results of the investigation had proved, much to his frustration, that she was exactly what she claimed to be. He had eyewitness reports of her work at the orphanage in Bogotá. "Miss Somerville, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne."

"Why didn't you tell me you ran into an old friend of the Graysons yesterday?"

"In the upset over the reporters, I suppose it slipped my mind."

Bruce smiled blandly. "Naturally. But, I was wondering, since we know so little about Dick's past, whether you would mind telling me what happened? As the boy's guardian, I feel responsible for gathering as much information about his history as I can."

"A very commendable notion. I, of course, have no objection. The woman's name was Molly Mercer. She claims to have worked in the same circus as Robyn and Charles Grayson."

"I don't suppose she mentioned what circus?"

"It was owned by a man named Haley. She also told me how Charles Grayson died."

"In front of Dick?" he asked, concern flashing through his careless mask.

"No." Her face expressed distaste. "Richard was occupied with the woman's cat. According to Mercer, Charles was killed in a trapeze accident. After his death, Robyn disappeared. By chance, Mercer ran into her several years later here in Gotham, which is why Richard knew her. They were infrequently in contact until Robyn's death."

Bruce hid his excitement as the social worker continued, "Mercer seemed to indicate that she suspected Charles' death wasn't an accident. Do you suppose it might have, in any way, been connected to his work for Wayne Enterprises?"

_With the way Earle eliminated those records? You bet it was._ Aloud he said, "It's possible."

The limo glided to a stop beneath the covered entryway of the Gotham Tipton. Exquisitely uniformed valets pulled open the doors. Bruce smiled politely. "Enjoy your evening, Miss Somerville."

He wasn't at all sorry to watch her hurry away in search of Henry Judas. Not only would Bruce Wayne never have been caught dead with a woman who was wearing a dress she probably inherited from her great-grandmother, but he didn't need anyone poking needles at him while he was trying to navigate Gotham society. Despite the months of practice, he still wasn't used to the playboy thing. It took conscious effort to walk into a room and remember not to say anything intelligent, to toe the line between indifference and rudeness, to always, whatever happened, smile, smile, smile with the charming idiocy the tabloids had made notorious. The role was occasionally amusing and sometimes challenging, but it was always tiring.

He worked his way around the edge of the room, smiling and nodding, gently testing the waters. They were, as usual, mixed. Although there were plenty of people willing to rub elbows with Bruce Wayne and his billions, there were many, particularly among the older crowd who had know his parents, whose recognition of him was at best cool and at worst non-existent. At this event, with a guest list limited only by who could afford a ticket, both Wayne fawners and haters abounded.

"Bruce!" A pencil-thin redhead in what looked skin tight snakeskin attached herself to his arm. "Isn't this just the most deadly party ever?"

He smiled at her vaguely familiar face. "Do I know you?"

"Of course, you idiot. The Crawfords party, remember?" She tugged impatiently on his arm, pulling him toward a salon that opened off the main ballroom. "Come on, all the fun's over there. This is the den of the old cats." She swept the room with a pretended look of terror. "I've risked my life to rescue you, so _come on_." He passively allowed her to pull him into the smaller room and into a clique in the corner. "Look who I found," she chirped.

A blond headed man raised his glass in greeting. "Bruce, old man, we missed you on the slopes today."

Bruce shrugged and made the most of his remaining hoarseness. "Caught a cold. Doctor forbids the great outdoors." He recognized most of the people in the circle – they belonged to a set that played hard, drove fast, and never went to bed before 4 in the morning or got up before 2 in the afternoon. _Guess I fit right in._

"Wayne, just the man I've been looking for." An overly friendly hand clapped his shoulder and spun him enthusiastically around. "Great new deal in plastics. You're going to be interested."

He smiled. "Yeah?"

"Let me tell you about it." The hand on Bruce's shoulder tightened and tried to pull him away form the group.

Bruce resisted. "I just own the company. I leave the running of it to better men. Have your people call my people and they'll talk, ok?" He smiled, shrugged off the entrepreneur's hand, and returned his attention to the redhead, who was staring in pretended shock across the room. "Bubbles is living up to her name tonight. She must be half smashed already."

Bruce followed her gaze and saw Audrey Williams slumped against he wall, draining the last of champagne. She looked nearly as pale as she had that night on the Walk.

"I hear Gladelands isn't doing so well," his self-appointed rescuer continued. "If I was about to lose my money, I suppose I would throw myself over the edge too. Poverty is so barbaric. Or even worse, the middle class. Can you imagine?" She laughed, as if she'd made some terribly clever joke.

Suddenly unbearably weary, Bruce slipped away from the group and headed toward the hotel's most advertised feature – its "winter garden," a gigantic conservatory complete with labyrinthine paths and bubbling fountains. He drew a relieved breath as he entered the moist and fragrant air. Old-fashioned lampposts lined the paths, and he moved silently through the dim light, trying to shake the party gossip from his memory. Evenings like this one made it difficult to remember why he hadn't taken Ducard up on his offer.

He was standing by a fountain, plotting what to do with the new information on Charles Grayson, when the click of heels and the overwhelming scent of Chanel No. 9 assaulted him from behind.

_To Be Continued…_

Wow, it's kind of like…a cliffhanger! I didn't plan it that way, it's just that I'm too tired to write anymore. I haven't even proofread, which I'm certain y'all noticed. And I need a shower. Seriously.

Responses to reviews from last chapter will be up on Wednesday. Tomorrow, I launch my career as the school paper's new copy editor, and am not foreseeing enough time even for much neglected homework. Wish me luck!

**REVEALED!** The not-so-obvious quotes from last chapter in order of appearance:

"What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous? A sparrow with a machine gun!"

_From _Batman: The Movie starring Adam West and Burt Ward (This was the one IcyWaters found)

"A technicality that will shortly be remedied."

_From _The Princess Bride (Spoken by Humperdinck when he comes into the bedroom and finds Wesley telling Buttercup she's not married because she didn't say "I do.")

"What – The curtains?"

_From_ Monty Python and the Holy Grail (The king, waving his arm dramatically at the window, says to Herbert/Alice "Someday son, all this will be yours." And his not-so-brilliant son replies…)

**If you have not seen any of these absolutely hilarious movies, your education is severely deficient! Watch them immediately! **(Except in the case of Monty Python, which I think is actually funnier when read. Multiple copies of the screenplay can be found online.)


	18. He lives on Drury Lane

**A/N** This is info I forgot to stick in my last author's note: In Chapter 15, when Somerville is telling Bruce about the incident with the reporters, it flashes back to show what actually happened. However, while Somerville didn't exactly lie, she didn't give Bruce all the details, particularly the one about her gun. This wasn't at all clear in the chapter (I'll go back and edit so that it is), and I apologize for that. Thanks to IcyWaters for pointing it out to me.

**Disclaimer** I do not own Batman or any affiliated settings, characters, or gadgets. Nor do I own the phrase "playboy klutz." It was, as far as I know, invented by Eccentric Banshee in her marvelous Batman fic, Haven. If you're looking for a Bruce romance, you should definitely check out her most excellent story.

**Acknowledgement** I must give a nod to Grace Livingston Hill who, when I was still at a young and tender age, formed my notion of the evil society woman. Thanks also to Seafever for reassuring me about the first bit of this chapter.

**Chapter 17**

_Diplomacy means lying all the time, so that your enemy has no idea of what you're really doing._

_King Matt the First_

"You didn't really come out here to enjoy the garden all alone?" The low, sultry voice sent prickles of dismay up his spine, as a hand slipped along his sleeve, caressing his bicep. The advances of random and oversexed women were just one of the occupational hazards of the playboy lifestyle, but it had to be the one he hated the most.

Forcibly stifling the impulse to flinch away, he turned, smile in place. "Hi. Do you like fountains, too?" He recognized the curvaceous brunette with really bad taste in formal wear as a relative newcomer to the Gotham social scene. _Was her name Fifi? Or maybe Gigi..._ Tonight she was wearing a dress that appeared to consist entirely of glitter-coated feathers. In fact, she was leaving a trail of sparkles across his coat.

"I love fountains," she purred, allowing her tongue to linger over the 'l' in 'love.'

He slowly backed up until his legs pressed against the low rim of the fountain. She followed and reached out to place both of her palms against his chest. "Goddess, it's like rock. How often do you work out?"

"It's the…um…polo." He shifted again, so that they were both standing by the side of the fountain.

She pulled her full mouth into a pout. "You're not running away, are you?"

_Just smile_. "That depends on what's chasing me."

Her hands stroked his abs. "Simple curiosity."

"Curiosity?" he managed, his skin crawling. _Wait..._

"I want to know whether the infamous Bruce Wayne can live up to his reputation." She stepped suddenly forward, pressing her body against his; his foot slid between her four inch spiked heels, and the next instant he was falling to his knees beside the fountain as she tumbled into it.

He blinked, eyes big with innocence and shock. "I'm so sorry! Are you ok?"

She answered with a string of not very complimentary opinions about his natural agility. Bruce noticed with a clinical sort of interest that the feathers weren't holding up under their impromptu ducking. "I'll just…go and get someone to send you a towel…"

He strode away from the cursing would-be seductress, shuddering and trying futilely to brush the glitter off his clothes. _Playboy klutz strikes again_. Some things just didn't fall into the category of what was necessary.

- - - - - -

It took some time to locate Judas in the crowded room. Cecilia slipped unobtrusively along the wall, garnering very little attention from the other guests. _It must be apparent that I'm one of the people who put the 'charity' into charity ball._ She at last spotted her silver-haired boss chatting amiably with an elderly couple. She joined the group in time to hear Judas giving a rundown on his publicity campaign for Hearts and Homes.

"Every week we distribute a fresh flyer. We don't want people to forget we're here, but neither do we want to bore them with the same old song and dance. Several advertising agencies have volunteered staff and hours to help with the designs." He turned to her. "Ah, Cecilia, I was wondering where you were. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Fredricks. Mr. Fredricks serves on the board of Wayne Enterprises," he added meaningfully, before reversing the introduction. "My colleague, Cecilia Somerville. Currently, she's strictly a social worker, but I'm hoping tonight will convince her to sign up and swell our ranks at H&H."

"It's a fine work, Miss Somerville," Mr. Fredricks enthused, removing one wrinkled but steady hand from his ornate cane and offering it to her. "The children of this city need so much."

"Yes, indeed," his sweet faced wife agreed. "Hearts and Homes has always been one of our favorite organizations."

"And you've always been some of my favorite benefactors," Judas put in.

Cecilia just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. _Should we start sobbing tears of gratitude on each other's shoulders now, or does that come after they give us another check?_

Judas continued, "I only wish all of Gotham's elite were as generous."

Fredricks focused across the room, on the part of the floor in front of the orchestra which was reserved for dancing. "Of course," he said, his expression hardening, "there are those who would use charitable donations as a pay-off for other, less commendable actions."

Cecilia followed his gaze and saw Bruce Wayne gracefully waltzing with a red-headed woman whose figure hinted that she'd been squeezed out of a toothpaste tube. _Look out Barbie._

Henry Judas was also watching the dance floor. "You might be interested to know that Cecilia is the case worker for Mr. Wayne's ward. I presume that, as a board member, you are familiar with the situation?"

Fredricks' voice was cold. "Yes, although I only became aware of the boy's existence when Fox explained the matter last week. Had I known earlier, you may be certain that I would have filed a complaint long before Earle. I can hardly imagine a less fit guardian of a small child. Miss Somerville, I trust you will take the right course of action."

Cecilia eyed the enraged old man cautiously. "I will endeavor to make my investigation as thorough and objective as possible."

Fredricks angrily rapped his cane against the polished floor. "The man is a disgrace to one of Gotham's finest families. Did I not feel as if I owed his father something, I would have resigned my seat on the board last spring." Without another word, he stalked away.

Mrs. Fredricks looked apologetically at Cecilia and Judas. "You must forgive Matthew. He was a close friend of Thomas Wayne's, and I am afraid that young man has been a great disappointment to many of us." Shaking her head sadly, she followed her husband.

- - - - - -

An hour and a half later, Bruce had had as much as he could stand. Milking his cold for all it was worth (his headache really was coming back), he issued a round of general goodbyes and went hunting for Somerville. He found her lurking behind a cluster of potted palms.

"Miss Somerville, you wouldn't by any chance be hiding from someone, would you?"

She didn't look amused. "I hope your inauspicious presence indicates that you are ready to leave."

"It does."

She stood on tiptoe and peeked over the palms. "Do you see Henry Judas anywhere?"

"Last I knew, he was in the salon talking the ears off of a potential benefactor."

"Thank heaven," she muttered, hurrying beside him as he strode toward the exit. "I am not cut out for PR work."

Bruce smirked. _I could have told her that._

As they stood waiting in a tiny side foyer for the car to be brought around, there was a commotion in the hallway behind them.

"_Nobody knowsh the troublesh I've sheen,_

_Nobody knowsh! My shorrow._

_Nobody knowsh the troublesh I've sheen…_"

Audrey Williams staggered past them up to the desk. "Jusht haf my car brought 'round. Theresh a good man. Jush tell 'em shend Bubblesh car. Sheesh got plashesh to go."

The deskman looked like he wanted to argue, but the drunk blond turned away before he had a chance.

"Nobody knowsh the troublesh I've sheen.

Glooooooooooooreeeeeee Halluh…halluhluh…"

She broke off and blinked up at Bruce, apparently noticing him for the first time. "Brushie! Brushie, sho good t'shee you." She swayed dangerously and Bruce grabbed her arm. She smelled like she'd been bathing in champagne, not just drinking it. "Wanna come for a ride, Brushie? Jush you an' me an'…" She saw Cecilia. "Whooshee?"

"Your car is here, sir," the deskman interposed.

Bubbles looked out the glass doors at the limo waiting by the curb. "Ish tha' your car, Brushe? Ish bee-ooh-full. Good ol' Brushe, alwush drivesh the besh carsh. Alwush." She threw herself against his chest. "Take me in your car, Brushie. Your bee-ooh-ful car. We can give my car to sharity!" She squinted blearily around and again spotted Cecilia. "Give it to her! Sheesh a sharity all righ'." Bubbles smiled charmingly. "Wush your name, honey?"

Somerville looked faintly amused. "Cecilia."

"Sheshi…shishi…I don' like tha' name."

Bruce cast an apologetic look at Somerville. "I think I'd better make sure she gets home."

"Yesh, lesh go home," Bubbles agreed. "In your car. The sharity c'n haf mine."

"I would be willing to drive Miss…er…"

"Williams," Bruce supplied.

"Miss Williams' vehicle," Somerville offered.

"Yeah, take it back to the Manor, and I'll have someone return it tomorrow," Bruce directed, gingerly guiding Audrey toward the door. "Bubbles, don't get sick on my upholstery."

"I'm no' shick!"

Once inside the car, the girl slumped down in her seat and hummed softly to herself as they sped through the streets of Gotham.

And suddenly, a dozen blocks from the hotel, the girl was no longer slumped and staring vacantly but sitting straight up with a gaze that was frightened but alert. "Bruce, please take me home with you!"

He folded his arms and stared at her thoughtfully. "That was a pretty good act, but you overdid the slurring a little. Why the charade?"

"I…I want to talk to your butler." Her hands twisted nervously in her lap.

Whatever he had expected, this was not it. "Alfred? Why?"

"He…he was kind to me once, and I need some advice."

"Bubbles, are you in trouble?"

"I don't know!" she wailed, and burst into tears. Bruce handed her his handkerchief and waited patiently until she was able to speak. "Ever since I…I jumped, I've felt like someone was watching me. And today, I was positive my car was being tailed. That's why I didn't want to get in it."

Bruce regarded her narrowly. "Are you sure this isn't just…you know…nervous reaction after…"

"After I tried to kill myself?" she asked bluntly. "No! Bruce, I swear to you, someone has been following me."

"Then we should call the police."

"No!" she all but shrieked. "No police!"

He studied her frightened face, then nodded. "All right. You can talk to Alfred." Bruce hit the intercom to the chauffeur and ordered, "We've changed our minds, take us to the Manor." Shutting the intercom back off, he picked up the limo's phone and dialed home. "Alfred? Audrey Williams is coming with me. She wants to talk to you…I don't know. Listen, Somerville is driving Miss Williams' car. Call her and tell her someone may be following her. Suggest she pull over somewhere where there are people and stay there until someone comes to escort her."

When they arrived at the mansion, Alfred was waiting. He escorted Bubbles into the library, then pulled Bruce aside for a private word. "I was unable to reach Miss Somerville."

"She should have been here by now. We drove twelve block in the wrong direction." Bruce absently ran a hand through his hair. "I'd better go look for her. You find out what Bubbles wants. Call Gordon if you have to."

"Yes, sir."

Alfred headed back to the library, and Bruce ran up the stairs to his study. Once inside the underground cavern, he strapped on his armor and hesitated. The Tumbler was great for heavy work, but it wasn't exactly inconspicuous. And tonight, he did not want to announce to the entire city that the Bat was on the prowl. He headed instead for a battered black corvette with tinted windows – perfectly innocent on the outside, lots of special features inside. _I should start teaching Dick how to take an engine apart_, he thought absently as he started the car.

Half a minute later, the only moving things in the cavern were the bats that swooped down from the roof, ready for their evening flights.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** As you can probably tell, I have very little respect for high fashion. To be blunt, I think most of it's dog ugly, not to mention stupid and probably inconvenient to wear. Anyway…

Responses to reviews are already up on my homepage! I'm so proud of myself!

Also, if I ever neglect to respond to someone's review, please let me know! I never purposely ignore one, but I'm freaked out I'll skip one by accident :P


	19. Drury Lane?

**A/A/N** I am so irritated! I had this chapter finished Monday evening, but the site wouldn't let me upload the document! Thankfully, if you're reading this, it means I finally got it up.

**A/N** Many apologies for the delay! My roommate's bridal shower, which I was coordinating, was last Thursday (and it went amazingly well considering I'd never thrown a formal party before), and there were various other aspects of real life kicking me in the teeth (including a test in Medieval Literature today). And in fair warning, I have to say that I'm not certain when the next chapter will be up. Probably not until after March 1st which is when the second draft of my screenplay is due. Alas.

**A Small Explanatory Note:** Lisa's (a.k.a. IcyWaters) cameo appears in this chapter. I modeled it after the old Adam West show, which contained a highly structured cameo appearance in each episode. Batman would be climbing up a wall, and a famous person would stick their head out of a window and exchange a few lines with the Caped Crusader, usually something having nothing at all to do with the plot.

**Disclaimer**

There was a young college age writer

Who told of a Ninja-bat fighter.

Though she increased his fame

She did not claim his name.

She was certainly no plagiarizer.

**Acknowledgment** To my friend Aaron, whose static electricity machine provided us with delightful hours of tingling terror.

Chapter 18

_Surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of man he is..."_

_Mere Christianity_

"I have to stop driving borrowed cars," Cecilia muttered, straining uselessly at the duct tape that bound her hands behind her and around a steel support beam. It was an awkward position, and although she'd been in it for only ten minutes, her arms were well on their way to being severely cramped.

She had been fewer than five minutes from the hotel when three dark sedans forced her to the side of the road. Before she could do more than ferociously rear end the car ahead of her, her door was wrenched open and a masked man forced her out of the car, duct taped her wrists and her mouth, and thrust her into the back of one of their own cars.

Half an hour later, she'd been manhandled into a warehouse full of crates, carted up a frighteningly narrow flight of metal stairs to a catwalk, and bound hand and foot to the steel post. She could feel the barrel of her Beretta digging into her where it was strapped to her thigh, but at the moment it might as well be back in her bedroom at the Manor. There was nothing to be done. She pushed herself on tiptoe to relieve the strain on her arms and waited.

- - - - - -

"Hey, Boss." A distinctly nervous Mikey opened the warehouse door for two men in long, dark coats.

"Ah, good evening." The Joker swept in ahead of his companion. "Things went according to plan with the car?"

"They got the car, yeah," Mikey replied, shutting the door.

"And the woman is secured as I instructed?"

Mikey cleared his throat. "The woman from the car is taped up like you said."

The Joker nodded in a pleased manner and headed toward the stairs, but his companion held up a hand. "A moment, my friend, this person seems hesitant," his smooth but slightly accented voice cautioned.

The Joker looked at his henchman, and one darkly drawn eye brow jiggled impatiently.

Mikey cleared his throat again and shifted his weight. "It was the right car, sir, I'm sure of that. And there was a lady inside. Only…I'm not sure it was the right one. This dame…she don't look like a party crasher, if you know what I mean. And there's this." He held out a plain, black purse.

The Joker took the bag and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open and stared at the driver's license framed in the clear plastic pocket. "Cecilia Somerville." Beside him, Morales drew a quick breath. The Joker slowly folded the wallet and tucked it back into the purse. "You're quite right, Mikey, the woman upstairs is not the woman I told you to procure for me."

"It was the right car, Boss, I swear…"

"Oh, I'm sure it was. Mistakes happen. They aren't anyone's fault." The Joker's voice was calm and even, and Mikey's shoulders relaxed.

"I did just what you told me."

"I seem to remember once telling you that one mistake was all you were allowed. And Mikey, you've already made yours."

The man's face flooded with fear, and he tried to run. Before he was two steps away, the Joker had placed three shots in the hapless henchman's back.

Morales stared passively at the fallen body and its spreading pool of scarlet. "You are, I take it, acquainted with Cecilia Somerville?"

The Joker's mouth twisted bitterly. "I have the honor of the lady's acquaintance."

Sudden, intense emotion flooded Morales' face. "Then you can guess how delightful to me is the thought of finding her in our power."

"What? Lay a finger on the darling of our intrepid leader's heart? Your life would be worth no more than his, my Spanish friend." The Joker indicated Mikey's body.

Morales looked over at him, irritation flickering across his face. "Columbian."

"What?"

"I come from Columbia, not Spain. The two are worlds apart."

"I beg your pardon. Would you by any chance have a Columbian solution to our problem?"

"Yes," Morales replied in self-satisfied tone. "I believe I can see how to turn the situation to our advantage."

- - - - - -

Cecilia thought she might actually be making some headway on the tape. There was a rough spot on the post, and judicious rubbing produced the satisfying sound of ripping fibers. But before she had worked through much more than the edge, footsteps clanged on the metal stairs, and she immediately drew her face into a pinched, scared look.

The Joker, in full costume, appeared, a leather bag and her purse grasped in his hand. He casually dropped both bags to the floor and approached her, his gloved hands clasped before him.

"Miss Somerville, how nice to see you again."

"What do you want from me?" she begged, her voice cracking on a sob.

"My dear, it's not that I don't appreciate the effort. As a theatrical artist myself, I have the greatest admiration for your talent. But it's simply a wasted performance. Let's speak as one professional to another, hmm?"

Her expression never faltered. "I don't know what you mean. Please…please don't hurt me."

"What _can_ I say to convince you? Ah! At the risk of sounding like a B-grade villain, I shall venture to tell you that…I know what you did last summer. In Columbia. Such a shame about the little girl."

Cecilia's face froze.

"You begin to take me seriously. Tell me, were you honestly remorseful, or is killing children simply part of the job description?"

Her face was expressionless, her voice cold and clear. "What do you want?"

"Everything you know about Richard Grayson."

"Why?"

"It shouldn't make any difference to you."

She lifted an eyebrow. "I suppose that means you're going to kill me. Hardly an inducement to open my mouth."

"Never underestimate a comedian's powers of persuasion." He bent and opened his bag. "I'm certain that by now you've learned of the little sobriquet with which the media has gifted me. It is based primarily upon my appearance, but still, I find a whimsical amusement in creating little ways to live up to it." He pulled a pair of scissors out of the bag and walked over to her. "Have you ever heard that laughter is a miracle worker?" he asked, as he unbuttoned her coat and pulled at her dress fabric. "In fact," he continued, snipping a slit across her stomach, "I find that it's more effective than almost anything else I've tried. It's so marvelously tidy. Almost never any unpleasant mess afterward." He again rummaged in his bag and pulled out a handful of slim wires and a roll of black electrical tape. "The idea is quite simple." There were six white nodes on the ends of the wires, and he taped three to either side of her stomach. "I create an electrical circuit which passes through your stomach muscles, causing them to convulse in much the same manner that tickling does." He stepped back and held up a black, joystick-like control. "Consider this first bit a complimentary sample." He pressed the button on the top of the stick.

She lunged forward and convulsed against her bonds, screaming in short, high bursts like laughter. After fifteen seconds, he released the button. She rested her head against the post and breathed in ragged gasps.

"Amusing little toy isn't it? Almost enough to make you split your sides."

Cecilia's breath came more evenly. She grinned, a mirthless grimace full of teeth. "That was fun, baby, can we do it again?"

Before she could draw another breath, he hit the button, and this time the current ran for a full minute. When it was over, she threw up, twisting her head in a futile attempt to spew the liquid to the side.

"Now, Miss Somerville, I think we might be ready to talk."

- - - - - -

Batman left the car on a quiet side street and set out on foot. It was a slim chance that the conversation he had overheard two nights ago had anything to do with Somerville's appearance, but when a retrace of her probable route from the hotel had produced no sign of her, he was left with few options.

Most of his ramblings the night before had been to locate buildings fitting the specifications of that whispered conversation. Footwork and computer research had yielded over ten locations – enough to take him the rest of the night. The first three – two warehouses and a condemned McDonald's – yielded no results. He was working his way up a wall for a rooftop shortcut when a voice halted his progress.

"Excuse me!"

He looked over to see a woman sticking her head out of a window.

"Wow, I can't believe I caught you! I'm Lisa…Lisa Waters. You don't know me, but I've been following your career through the Internet, and I have to say that you've been slipping a little. For an enigmatic symbol of unflinching justice who's supposed to turn fear against those who prey on the fearful, you could really stand to kick it up a notch."

Batman thought about it and decided she was right. "Thanks. I'll work on it."

"No problem." Lisa disappeared back inside her window, and the Bat continued on his route to the roof.

It was only a few minutes later when he stumbled across the policemen. At least, he assumed some of them were policemen. One man was swapping his uniform jacket for another guy's flannel shirt, and his companion was dangling the keys to the cruiser and demanding cash up front. Batman waited silently above, memorizing the faces. Gordon would know how to deal with cops who lent out their uniforms, and Batman didn't want to haul them in himself. He was more interested in where the rented cruiser was going.

Both the slick streets and the fact that the car didn't have far to go made it easy for him to keep up, slipping through the shadows several stories above the street. The car pulled around the corner of a large warehouse, and Batman used his cable to swing over to the roof. He was still curious about the purpose of the borrowed outfits, but he was a lot more interested in a woman's screams that echoed faintly from inside the building. Dropping over the edge of the roof, he began to look for a way in.

- - - - - -

She was having trouble catching her breath. It hurt to pull in air, but she managed to talk anyway. "How long have you been in the funny business?"

His tone was casual and conversational. "About six years. It was a one-time job, but I liked the costume so much I kept it." The Joker peered at his victim with a gleam of real interest in his eyes. "You're really not afraid of me, are you?"

She shook her head and smiled faintly. "Sorry. Fear is…among the worst of the human experiences, and you're…not nearly evil enough to merit it."

The Joker clucked his tongue. "I think I have been gravely insulted. Tell me, why am I such a minor evil?"

"You deal in raw pain. And you're mad. Quite mad. There's nothing very…terrifying about that." Cecilia took a shuddering breath and rested her head against the post, her eyes closed.

"Then I suppose there's no point in continuing with this." The Joker gripped the wires and ruthlessly ripped them away. "Tell me, since you seem to have things so neatly worked out, what would I have to do to earn my 'really evil' badge?"

"Don't you know?" she murmured, not opening her eyes. "True evil is always…beautiful."

The glove did little to soften the edge of his hand as it smashed against her head. "You must be a little mad yourself, Miss Somerville. Have you forgotten that I'm going to kill you?"

"Slipped my mind," she muttered dazedly.

Footsteps clanged on the steps, and a thin, pale man holding a box appeared. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and the Joker swung around. "What is it?"

"The…what you requested, sir." The man held out his box.

"Ah, yes." The Joker snatched the box and his flunky nervously backed away.

"You claim, my dear Miss Somerville, that you do not fear me. I must admit that I can never resist a challenge." He came closer and she could hear scrabbling and scratching sounds inside the box. The Joker leered at her. "You look a little pale, my dear."

His hand moved to the lid, but before he could lift it, there was an explosion of sound from downstairs.

"POLICE!"

Instead of alarm, a look of supreme irritation crossed the Joker's painted face. He set the box down and darted for the stairs. The moment he was out of sight, Cecilia began frantically sawing her wrists against the rough spot on the post, staring fixedly at the box on the floor.

Her first knowledge of the shadowy figure behind her was the cool edge of metal against her wrist, and then her hands swinging free. She gasped with pain as the muscles in her severely cramped arms began to throb. A moment later, she heard the tape around her ankles ripping and felt it pull viciously at her nylons. Her liberator stepped in front of her.

It was the Batman.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Responses to reviews are up on my homepage!


	20. That's what I said

**A/N** Hooray! I have officially survived the totally insane month of February! My life forecast for March looks slightly more calm (although I wouldn't bet the farm on it).

**Disclaimer** I do not like green eggs and ham! I do not like them, Sam-I-Am!

**Acknowledgement** To Emilie Loring, who began my introduction to the art of banter.

**Chapter 19**

_There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing._

- _Much Ado About Nothing_

"We should go," he rasped, taking a firm hold on her arm.

She winced and pulled away. "Thanks, but the police are downstairs. I'm sure they'll give me a lift."

"Those aren't the police."

The shooting downstairs suddenly stopped, and a masculine voice bellowed, "Where's the woman?"

Cecilia hobbled (her ankles were very stiff) to the edge of the walk and snatched up her purse. "Pardon me if I seem reluctant, but the last time I met you, you bashed me over the head. I think I'll take the police, thanks."

Footsteps were pounding up the metal steps.

"I'm afraid you don't have that choice," he growled, and the next moment his iron arm had wrapped around her waist and they were shooting through the air.

They came to a stop dangling beneath a metal support beam only three feet below the roof. His arm pressed cruelly against her bruised ribs, and Cecilia felt herself growing dizzy from pain and lack of air. Her purse slipped from her fingers. Below them, a surprised shout rang out. "She's gone!"

More shouting ensued, but Cecilia didn't pay attention to it because at that moment, the Batman hit some sort of release on his gun while simultaneously kicking the beam above them. They swung toward the wall in an inverted arc that landed them precisely in front of a small, open window. Batman hooked the edge with his foot, then shoved her onto the sill. "Stay quiet," he hissed, before shoving himself off.

Peering down, Cecilia could make out several figures swarming across the catwalk, including one whose brilliant hair identified him as the Joker. _He looks awfully free for someone who just got busted by the police_.

She was still squinting down when the back shadow fell like a guided missile. The shouting was replaced with screams as a whirling blackness seemed to be three places at once, even from her aerial view. There was an explosion, a billowing cloud of smoke, and something whizzed past her head and clattered against the beam above her. Next moment, the Bat was sailing up out of the smoke. There wasn't room for both of them on the sill, but he took care of the problem by gripping her forearm and shoving her out ahead of him. He teetered momentarily, then maneuvered his gun arm out of the window, and they were jerked toward the roof.

The snow on the flat roof had been blown into icy, crusted drifts. Batman let go of her and she fell to her hands and knees, elbow deep in snow. "You may have just dislocated my shoulder."

"Stop exaggerating," he grunted. "And stay here," he added before disappearing back over the edge.

"I pity your mother," she muttered, painfully pushing herself up. The wind, naturally, was sharp and icy. She shivered and buttoned up her coat, then hiked up her skirt and moved the gun to her coat pocket. "Now, how do I get off this roof?"

To her delight, five minutes of stumbling around the perimeter of the roof revealed some sort of emergency access ladder at the back of the warehouse that led all the way to the ground. It was ice coated, and she nearly fell several times on the way down. Finally at the bottom, she repressed the desire to kiss the ground in gratitude and cautiously headed away from the building. The streets appeared empty, but she was two blocks away before she allowed herself to relax a little and not cling quite so tightly to the shadows.

She passed a lone figure slumped in a doorway, strung out on whatever garbage he could get his hands on in drug-deprived Gotham, the only other person stupid enough to be out on a night like this. As she passed, he gave a shrieking squeal of terror and shrank back. She wondered what exactly about her unthreatening self had frightened him, but when she was grabbed from behind and thrust into an alley, she decided she hadn't been the inspiration for his hallucination.

"I thought I told you to stay put."

Both hands shoved deep in her pockets, the left curled around the butt of her gun, she glared up at the mask. "Right. I'm going to sit in a snow drift on the roof because some megalomaniac in a cape tells me to."

"If you have any desire to make it home unharmed, you will do exactly as I tell you. I may not always feel so inclined to come to the rescue."

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire," muttered Cecilia.

"And when I suggested you might not make it home unharmed, I wasn't thinking only of the bad guys."

"You're threatening me? How reassuring."

He simply towered over her in menacing silence, and she found that a staring contest with a couple of gleaming eyeholes was unbelievably unnerving. Cecilia shrugged in defeat. "Lead on, O winged one."

They ran for what felt like forever through a maze of back streets and alleys, she always half a step behind, his grip on her wrist painfully hard. As they ran, she began to catch glimpses of shadowy movement; apparently, the winter night streets weren't as deserted as she had thought.

At last they swung into an alley that led nowhere. Cecilia collapsed against the dingy concrete wall, gasping, as the Batman unhooked his grappling gun and pointed it upward. There was an empty click. He flipped the instrument over in his hand, a rueful tinge to his shadowed mouth.

Cecilia pushed herself upright. "What's wrong?"

He shoved the gun back in his belt. "Out of gas."

"Well, isn't that too bad?" a voice sneered behind them.

Cecilia jerked around and found that the open end of the alley had filled with a dozen young men in black jackets and shaved heads. The one who had spoken stepped forward. "Hello, Batman."

From his accent and the shape of his features, Cecilia thought that he was probably Vietnamese.

The Batman stepped in front of her. "What do you want?"

"You've been walking all over this city like you own it, Batman. But you're on Tiger Eye turf now, and you forgot to pay for your club membership."

As he spoke, he and Batman had been slowly approaching each other. Cecilia was never quite certain who moved first, but suddenly the entire alley erupted in a whirlwind of shouts, fists, and switchblades. She could see nothing clearly, but the walls rang with cries and thuds and the occasional bone-chilling snap. She set her back firmly against the wall and pulled her gun out of her pocket.

A minute later, the noise abruptly ceased. The Batman stood upright amid half a dozen moaning figures. The rest had escaped out the mouth of the alley. Batman bent and hauled the leader to his feet. "If you had any sense, kid, you'd find a new club."

One of the figures behind them stirred. The silhouette of a hand and gun slowly rose. When the shot rang out, Batman swung around, throwing the gang leader against the wall. The Dark Knight stared for a moment at the bleeding figure on the ground, then looked at Cecilia, whose arms were still extended rigidly before her.

She sighed and dropped the Beretta to her side. "Excuse my interference, but I'm not certain how bulletproof you are."

"Anything but a straight shot." He dropped to his knees beside her victim.

She approached slowly. "Is he dead?"

"No. Hit high on the right shoulder."

She brushed a shaking hand across her eyes. "Thank God."

He examined her for a silent moment before rising his feet. "Where did you get the gun?"

"It's mine," she answered, dropping the weapon back into her pocket. "Legal and licensed, don't worry."

"Why didn't they take it from you?"

"They never searched me. I…" She broke off and shrugged. During her first few minutes at the warehouse, she had thought that she had detected a certain consternation, as if she were not quite what they had expected.

The Batman stepped aside and muttered into his wrist. Cecilia supposed he had some sort of communicator. A moment later, he turned back to her and held out an imperious hand. "Come on."

"What about…" She gestured to the prostrate gang members, some of whom were beginning to stir and moan.

"The police are on their way."

"Excellent. I think I'll wait here for them."

"They'll have enough to deal with without you," he snapped, and seized her wrist.

"The fun just never stops," she gasped, breaking into a sprint to keep her arm from being wrenched out of its socket.

- - - - - -

Alfred set two cups of steaming coffee on the kitchen table. Personally, he would have preferred tea, but he wasn't convinced that all of the champagne had gone on Audrey Williams' outside. She might need something to help her focus.

"How can I help you, Miss Williams?"

The girl's tone was tense. "I need some advice, and I…I didn't know where else to come."

Alfred felt a surge of pity. What sort of life did the girl lead that she had to come to a relative stranger for help?

"I will do my best, Miss Williams."

She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and said without preamble, "My father has been kidnapped."

Alfred frowned in alarm. "When?"

"Nearly a week ago. There was an attack, a car bombing. His chauffeur was killed. The next morning he left for work and disappeared. That evening we…my mother and I…got a phone call. The man said that if we didn't do exactly what he said, he'd kill daddy." Her voice broke on the last word, and she paused to regain control. "He said that we had to make it took like da… my father had gone overseas on a business trip and that we weren't to call the police or tell anyone."

"Was there no ransom demand?"

She shook her head.

"And has the kidnaper contacted you since then?"

She shook her head again. "I…I couldn't take it anymore. I tried to jump into the harbor. I guess you saw it in the paper." She bent her head, ashamed.

"Yes," he said gently.

"And then the Batman was there." She met his eyes wonderingly. "It was like a sign – a miracle. And I thought that maybe there was something I could do to help my father." She closed her eyes and slumped in her chair. "I wish I could find him…Batman. I think he would help me."

"Miss Williams, you need to call the police."

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up in alarm. "But he said he'd kill my father!"

"By following his orders you play right into his hands. It may be that the police already have some clue that could lead us to Mr. Williams."

Her face was filled with anguished doubt.

Alfred reached over and gently touched her small, cold hand. "Miss Williams, you have trusted me enough to tell me your story. Will you not trust me enough to take my advice?"

Her hand clenched beneath his. She nodded.

Alfred crossed to the counter and picked up the phone. "Good evening, is Lieutenant Gordon at home? This is Alfred Pennyworth at Wayne Manor. I'm afraid it's urgent."

- - - - - -

When they finally reached the nondescript, black car, Cecilia was ready to weep with relief. Her legs were trembling, and every ragged breath of freezing air was like a burning knife through her chest. Not to mention that her shoes, although thankfully flat, were not made for running.

She shut her door and automatically fastened her seatbelt. The Batman slipped in through the driver's door, and his looming presence seemed to take up more than his fair share of the front seat. Cecilia shrank back against her door and tried to quiet her breathing.

"What did the Joker want with you?"

She shivered. "Could you at least turn on the heat?"

Somewhat to her surprise, he started the engine and flipped the appropriate switch on the dashboard. "What did he want?" the Batman repeated as he drove slowly down the street.

She gratefully held her hands in front of a vent. "To kill me, or so he said."

"If that was all he wanted, he would have done it long before I got there."

She dropped her hands to her lap and noticed that breathing wasn't quite as painful as it had been. "I'm not so certain. The man is a consummate sadist. But he also wanted information."

"What about?"

She hesitated, aware that he was getting everything his own way, but she was too weary to think up a clever evasion. "My work." He _had_ saved her life. "I'm investigating Bruce Wayne. But I'm sure you already know that."

"Did he ask about the boy?"

"Yes."

Was it her imagination or did the black-gloved hands tighten on the wheel?

"What did you tell him?"

"About Richard? Nothing. I did offer a few opinions on the Joker's qualifications as a villain." She smiled faintly. "I think I made him lose his temper."

"You're good at that."

She lifted her eyebrows in faint surprise. "That's a personal remark, considering the brevity of our acquaintance."

"It's not exactly a hidden talent."

"At least I make an impression."

He suddenly slammed on the breaks. "This is your stop."

Cecilia looked out at the deserted but well-lit street. "Where are we?"

"A block from Park Avenue. You do know how to take a taxi?"

She released her seatbelt. "Can you lend me twenty bucks?" He gave her another one of those inscrutable stares. She shrugged. "I lost my purse."

"Open the glove compartment."

She did, and a stack of bills as thick as a Harlequin novel tumbled into her lap. "So this is where you keep the spare change." She pinched the alligator clip and freed a twenty. "Thanks for the lift."

As soon as she shut the door behind her, the car sped away down the street. Cecilia watched it until it disappeared, shrugged, shivered, and went in pursuit of a taxi.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.


	21. That's totally dumb

**A/N** Spring Break! HALLELUJAH! Also, I apologize for doing a very slapdash job of proofreading this chapter. If anyone sees any atrocious errors, please let me know!

**Disclaimer **Even if I did own Batman, I couldn't afford his life insurance premiums.

**Acknowledgement** Bath and Body Works, for their amazingly delicious chapstick.

**Chapter 20**

_Guys, a woman's purse…it's her secret source of power._

_-How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_

"Miss Williams, are you sure, are you _absolutely_ sure that there has been no word from the kidnaper since that one phone call?" Gordon asked for the third or fourth time.

She shook her head, hands wrapped around her empty mug. "No. Absolutely nothing."

"Is it possible that your mother may have been contacted and not told you?"

Audrey shook her head again as Alfred unobtrusively refilled everyone's coffee, and Gordon sniffed the brew appreciatively. "Thanks."

The butler wasn't sure who looked more strained – Audrey Williams or the lieutenant. There were deep lines carved into the corners of his mouth and dark bags under his eyes. If Alfred had been a betting man, he would have wagered that of Gotham's unlikely duo of crime fighters, Batman got more sleep. Bruce Wayne, after all, didn't have to worry about making a living and protecting a wife and children. No, Alfred mentally corrected himself. That wasn't quite true anymore. But anonymity had its advantages. Gordon stood on the front lines as a visible target.

A slight vibration in his jacket pocket alerted Alfred his cell phone was receiving a call. He had felt a decided distaste at the thought of being chained to a communication device, but Bruce's return last spring had changed a few things. And after all, only a few, a very few, privileged people had his number.

Alfred stepped quietly out into the hallway. "Master Wayne?"

"Alfred, Somerville's on her way in a taxi. She should be there within half an hour. She had a little run-in with the Joker. Our story is that we thought she took Bubbles' car out for a very long spin."

"Very good, sir. Lieutenant Gordon is here talking to Miss Williams, but I believe he will be leaving soon. Should I attempt to detain him until Miss Somerville arrives?"

"Better not risk it. Our trusty friend's no fool, and I'd rather not chance raising any stray suspicions. Oh, and try to get Bubbles out of there, too."

"As you wish sir."

"I'll see you soon."

- - - - -

Cecilia shoved her money at the driver and shakily climbed out of the taxi. She trudged slowly but gratefully up the steps of Wayne Manor toward a warm rectangle of light and the silhouette of Alfred Pennyworth.

"Good evening, Miss Somerville," he greeted. "Or perhaps I should say, good morning."

Cecilia hesitated before responding. There was something odd about the way he had uttered that greeting, but she decided she would worry about it later, when she was warm and the various parts of her anatomy weren't keeping up such an intense throb of agony. The very thought of trying to explain where she'd been all evening made her want to cry. She settled for "I'm very tired, Mr. Pennyworth. I think I'll head to bed."

"Of course, Miss Somerville."

It took three times as long as usual to climb the stairs to her room. Her muscles were giving way to ominous fits of trembling, and she was convinced that had her room been one door farther down the hall she wouldn't have made it. Her hand was resting on the doorknob when Wayne sauntered down the hallway.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in! Enjoy your ride? That's a sweet set of wheels Bubbles has got and, trust me, I should know."

_They think I was out joyriding? No wonder Pennyworth seemed a little stiff_. She realized Wayne was actually waiting for an answer. With a great effort, she dredged up an expression that might have been a smile. "I can't think when I've had more fun. Goodnight, Mr. Wayne."

With her last vestige of strength and will, she changed into her flannel pajamas before collapsing beneath the sheets.

- - - - -

Alfred stood by a table in the cavern beneath Wayne Manor, dubiously regarding his employer, who was dangling a small, black purse by its long strap.

"You stole her purse?"

"No!" Bruce exclaimed, in tones of wounded innocence. "I saved her purse. She dropped it, and I caught it."

"And failed to return it," the butler pointed out.

"I'll give it back. Eventually. Come on, Alfred, aren't you the least little bit curious about the woman's personal life? Hard as it is to believe, she really didn't originate beneath a rock somewhere."

"Exactly, sir, her personal life. We've no evidence that is anything but what she seems to be, so I must question whether it is really necessary…"

"She has a gun, Alfred."

"A gun?" the butler demanded in disbelief.

"She shot a man tonight," Bruce continued, with barely controlled anger. "She's investigating _my_ kid, and she's carrying a gun in _my_ house. I feel that I have the right to know what other secrets she's packing." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he was again in control, anger buried beneath a cynical smirk. Unzipping the bag, he stuck in a cautious hand and pulled out a sleek, silver phone. "Item: one expensive cell phone." He opened it and punched buttons to open the address list. "And she has saved all of three numbers: the Manor, Gotham Social Services, and a cell for someone named Simon. We'll look into him." He scribbled down the number, then laid the phone on the table and stuck his hand back into the purse. "Item: one almost empty package of Kleenex. And here I thought she would have inherited her grandmother's handkerchiefs along with her formal dress." His hand disappeared again. "Item: one tube of chapstick, warm vanilla sugar from Bath and Body Works. Aha! Our stone-faced Miss Somerville has a frivolous side after all."

"Might I point out that a majority of Gotham's population suffers form chapped lips during the winter months?"

"Yes, but this isn't your average grocery store check-out line chapstick. This is from a specialty store, proving that she does, in fact, have a feminine weakness."

"Vanilla chapstick. Yes sir, there's certainly a lot of potential in exploiting that."

"Killjoy." Bruce rapidly emptied the rest of the purse. It contained disappointingly little: a cheap comb, a slender wallet, a small mirror, and a tiny red notebook.

Bruce flipped open the wallet. "About seventy dollars in cash," he reported. "A visa card and her driver's license, complete with typical mug shot." Bruce thoughtfully tilted the plastic rectangle toward the light. "Issued in Florida, only three months ago, to Cecilia Maria Dolores Perez Somerville. Oh, no way…" He grinned delightedly. "She totally lied about her age. Check out her 'birthdate.'" He handed the card to Alfred and picked up the notebook.

Alfred squinted at the tiny date. "It does seem a bit improbable."

"Can we have her arrested for lying to the federal government?"

"A slender hope, sir."

Bruce, wearing a curious expression, was flipping through the notebook.

"Anything interesting?"

"It's blank except for these two front pages. What do you think?"

Alfred took the book and peered down at the paper. The blue-lined sheet was covered with various combinations of circles and angles. Beneath each figure was a tiny set of tally marks. "A personal code, perhaps?" the butler mused. "Although…" He trailed off, frowning. Bruce waited patiently, not wanting to upset the old man's train of thought. At last the butler shook his head. "It reminds me of something, but I can't quite recall what. It might come to me later."

"Sleep on it," Bruce advised. He retrieved the tiny digital camera that was part of Batman's equipment and snapped pictures of the strange drawings. He then swapped the camera for a batarang and used its sharp edge to create a tear along the leather side of the purse.

"Vandalism."

"Corroborative evidence. Somerville is under the impression that this bag fell a couple of stories." Bruce picked up the mirror and slammed it against the corner of the table. A web of cracks spread across the glass surface. "Now, what small, round object would be likely to fall out and roll away, never to be seen again? Oh yes." With a smirk, he picked up the chapstick.

"I am going to refrain from pointing out that stealing Miss Somerville's chapstick is a pointless and decidedly childish thing to do."

"I appreciate that, Alfred."

- - - - -

Gordon shivered and rubbed his nose with his gloved hand. One of the definite negatives to his relationship with Batman was the fact that they always met outside, at night, fully exposed to Gotham's winter. He tried to imagine having one of these cryptic rendezvous inside, but his imagination failed when he tried to picture that black and massive figure sitting on one of the ancient, police-issue folding chairs and sipping coffee strong enough to pave a road. The idea sounded like one of the periodic features the tabloids ran on the city's most mysterious crime fighter.

_Coffee – Part of every crime fighter's life, but does he take it black or with sugar for the extra..._

"Lovely night," a voice rasped.

Gordon jumped, startled out of his whimsical musings, then silently cursed himself. He ought to be used to this by now. "It's cold enough to freeze hell," the lieutenant responded, grumpy from cold and fright.

"Then I assume you have a hell of a reason for being out."

"I had a very interesting conversation with Miss Audrey Williams…" Gordon quickly related everything he had learned from the distraught socialite. When he had finished, the Bat stood staring silently out over the city. "Well?" Gordon demanded impatiently, trying not to let his teeth chatter. "What do you think?"

"I'm thinking about the same thing you are," the Bat responded coldly. "The corpse from the tree farm."

"Yep," Gordon affirmed, a little smugly. "And since we already had all the info on Williams from when we discovered coke was coming in with the Gladelands shipments and checked out all their execs, I thought it wouldn't hurt to run a couple things through the computer."

"You identified him." It wasn't a question.

"Dental records. We'll run a DNA test tomorrow just to be sure, but…"

"You're already sure."

"Yeah," the cop admitted. "You think it's connected the drugs?"

"The Joker's too new to have stepped so completely into Falcone's shoes."

"The make-up was new, but maybe the man isn't," Gordon pointed out. "On the other hand, is there a chance he's been hired by whoever is pulling the strings?"

"Anything's possible."

Gordon slapped his arms against his chest, trying to work up some extra circulation. "Speaking of the Joker, what happened down at that warehouse? We picked up the ones you left."

"He kidnapped Cecilia Somerville."

"The social worker who is investigating Bruce Wayne?" Gordon demanded in surprise.

"Yes. The interesting part is that she was driving Audrey Williams' car."

Gordon gave a low whistle. "You think the real target could have been Miss Williams?"

"It's possible." The Bat briefly related how the fake policemen had led him to the warehouse. "But once I arrived, Joker and cops seemed to be on the same side."

"Why would he stage a rescue?"

"If his real target was Williams, it could have been a way of releasing Somerville, but keeping her from going immediately to the police."

"Because she'd think she'd already talked to them," Gordon agreed. "But why let her go? Why not kill her like he tried to the first time?"

"I'm growing very curious about Miss Somerville's relationship with our funny friend."

Gordon nodded, brushing ice crystals form his mustache. "You and me both."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** All right, I realize this chapter was a teensy bit on the short side. However, I had to cut it there because all the next bits need to make up their own chapter. How do I know this? Well, because I've already written most of it. So here's the deal: As soon as I get fifteen reviews for this chapter, I'll put up the next one. Am I devious and manipulative? But of course…

Responses to reviews for the last chapter will be up tomorrow. I may be on break, but my body still insists on sleep :P


	22. What kind of a name is Drury?

**A/A/N** I had this done last night! Really! In fact, the review responses went up last night. But was being a total pain and once again not letting me upload documents. ARG!

**A/N** Well, you guys totally called my bluff! Remember when I said I had "most" of this chapter written? Well, "most" actually meant "about two-thirds of the rough draft." I thought I'd have at least one more day to pull it together :) (Not that I'm complaining. The reviews were great!) A special welcome to all those first-time reviewers (a.k.a. lurkers). Look at it this way: Writing a review once in a while is good for you…like eating stewed spinach. You might not enjoy it, but it makes you stronger.

**Disclaimer** I don't own Batman. In fact, I don't own much of anything, so if you're a house breaker or a hold-up guy, don't waste your time on me.

**Acknowledgment** To Ray Bradbury, one of the greatest literary stylists of the twentieth century. If I ever write anything half as good as Dandelion Wine, I'll be a happy woman.

**Chapter 21**

"_And now leave me in peace for a bit! I don't want to answer a string of questions while I am eating. I want to think!" said Frodo._

"_Good heavens!" said Pippin. "At breakfast?"_

_The Fellowship of the Ring_

_There was pain: swirling white and red pain that went on and on until she thought she would explode with the sheer volume of it. There was a sudden stillness, the colors plunged toward black, and she was falling with no one to catch her._

_She lay on the floor, slowly coming back to an awareness of true color and sound, tasting the rawness of her throat and remembering that she had been screaming, "No sé! No sé!" until the words had lost their meaning and become only shrill white and red noise._

"_So stubborn," Morales said softly. "So blind and misled." His tone abruptly altered from sorrowful to sharp and demanding as he turned to address his son-in-law. "Your son, he has spent time with this woman, has he not?"_

"_Yes, she has helped him with his English," came the uncertain reply._

"_Excellent, go and fetch him."_

"_But…but he is only thirteen," Gutierrez was startled into protesting._

"_And it is time he began to learn the family business. Bring him before I grow angry with you."_

_Gutierrez scuttled out. An eternity later, during which the smell of dirt ground into the carpet swelled and receded like the throb of her hand, he returned, guiding a slender, proud-featured boy by the shoulder._

"_Samuel," Morales said, "you see before you an enemy of our house. This woman has lied to us, stolen from us, and now she will not admit the truth. Tell me, nieto, if there is something you know of her – something which she finds particularly irritating or frightening – that might persuade her cursed tongue to speak to us."_

_She cautiously tilted her head and looked the boy full in the face. She saw his nostrils flaring with heightened breath, his bright eyes, and she remembered all the times she had stood over him and supervised his homework when he had promised his friends he would be out playing fútbol, the time she had caught him taking money from his mother's purse, the time she had stopped him from peeking through the windows of the maids' quarters. Samuel stood on tiptoe and whispered into his grandfather's ear._

_Morales smiled. "It is well thought of. It seems you are more my son than your father's. Go and bring it here." The boy bolted out the door. "Get up!" Morales ordered, and she felt Alberto's hard hand on her shoulder, tugging, shaking…_

"Miss Somerville!"

With a pained gasp, she flung off the hand and threw herself away. She clawed through an entrapping tangle of fabric, and then she was falling, falling onto the thickly carpeted floor of her room in Wayne Manor.

"Miss Somerville?" She straightened up to see a small and blurred figure on the edge of the bed.

"Richard?" With a faint groan she dropped back onto the floor. Every part of her ached like she'd been cudgeled by a bobby with an iron nightstick.

"I came to see if we could play chess."

"Chess," she repeated disbelievingly.

"Before Miss Tracy comes," he elaborated and added, "we didn't even play one game yesterday."

She heard the accusation in his tone, although she couldn't make out his face. "Richard, would you kindly hand me my glasses?"

When the wire frames were settled on her nose, she looked at him severely. "In the first place, yesterday was Sunday, the generally acknowledged day of rest. In the second, it is very rude to come into a lady's room and wake her out of a sound sleep without good reason. And third, if you will go downstairs and set up the board, I will join you shortly."

Richard's face lit up, and he ran for the door. Cecilia slowly climbed to her feet, wincing at every new muscle that came into use. At the rate she was going, Richard would be able to set up the board half a dozen times before she arrived.

Unable to face the trauma of getting dressed, she pulled on her bathrobe and began easing her way downstairs. As she had predicted, Richard had the board ready and was dancing impatiently when she entered. She hauled herself onto one of the high stools and stared wearily at the black and white squares. "Thank you," she muttered gratefully, when Pennyworth set a steaming mug of coffee at her elbow.

But even with the aid of caffeine, it was difficult to concentrate on the game over the throbbing ache of her body. Richard stood a decent chance of winning, and she wasn't even trying to lose. The boy, in fact, was beginning to notice his advantage. His young face assumed a smug smirk, giving him an astonishing, and exasperating, resemblance to Bruce Wayne. Physically, the two were nothing alike, but there was no question that Wayne spent considerable time around the kid.

Her knights and rooks were gone, and her queen was in danger. Cecilia was scowling ferociously at the board when the doorbell rang.

"Ah, that will be Miss Tracy," Pennyworth announced. "Up to the schoolroom, Master Dick."

"But…"

"Now, Master Dick."

Hearing the stern tone in the butler's voice, Richard slid off his stood without further protest and left the room.

"Saved by the bell," Cecilia said dryly. "I believe Miss Tracy just rescued my queen from an ignominious capture." _And apparently Wayne is ignoring my advice._

- - - - - -

It was exactly 8:00 AM when Gordon pulled his battered cruiser to a stop in front of Wayne Manor (for the second time in less than twenty-four hours). There was another visitor ascending the front steps.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, turning at the sound of his footsteps. "You're James Gordon, that police officer who was at the charity function last month. I read all about it in the paper, and I must say that I think what the police department did was just wonderful. Do you go to a lot of those high society fundraisers?"

"Ah…no," replied Gordon, momentarily nonplused. When people recognized him, it wasn't usually in connection with "high society." Then his cop training took over. "And you would be…?"

"Cassandra Tracy. I'm Richard's tutor."

_Richard's tutor?_ Gordon thought skeptically, discreetly eying the long and shapely legs that were very visible beneath Ms. Tracy's short skirt. _Guess she doesn't mind the cold._

The inscrutable Pennyworth opened the door. "Good morning, Miss Tracy, Lieutenant Gordon." He helped the woman off with her coat. "Master Dick is waiting in the schoolroom."

"Thank you, Alfred," the blond trilled, and took herself (and her legs) upstairs.

"Lieutenant, Miss Somerville is in the kitchen."

Gordon followed the butler along the by now familiar route to the kitchen where the Somerville woman sat slumped at the counter, her hair hanging in tangles around her wan face. _She looks about how I feel_. Spending the night cleaning up the Bat's handiwork didn't leave a lot of time for sleep.

"Good morning, Miss Somerville." Gordon hopped onto the stool across from her, glancing curiously at the half played chess game on the counter. Somerville carefully pushed the board to one side.

"Lieutenant, I assume this is about last night?" She reached up to push her hair away from her face, and the loose sleeve of her robe fell back to reveal a faint set of bruises around her wrist.

"The Joker do that to you?"

She looked reflectively at her arm. "No, I believe that is the mark of the Batman. He must have dragged me across half of Gotham last night." She shrugged. "I suppose he saved my life, so I shouldn't complain." She pushed up robe and pajama sleeves to reveal her forearm. "This is from the Joker.

Gordon winced at the sight of the enormous black patches that discolored her skin. "He hit you?"

"I was tied to a post, and he had some sort of electrical device that made me convulse against it."

"Yeah, I think we may have found something like that last night when we raided the warehouse," Gordon said thoughtfully. "A thing with a joystick and wires?" She nodded.

Pennyworth set a cup of coffee next to Gordon, who nodded his thanks and picked up the cup. It was strong and hot with a trace of sugar, just the way he liked it. _I'm getting to be a regular around here_.

"Oh by the way…" Gordon held out the paper bag he'd been carrying. "I believe this is yours."

She opened the bag and pulled out the purse. "Yes, it is." She unzipped it and rummaged inside, inadvertently sticking her fingers through the rip in the side.

"Anything missing?"

"Ah…a tube of chapstick. I suppose it fell out." She pulled a loose fiber off the tear. "You found this in the warehouse?"

"Actually, Batman gave it to me. I guess I assumed he found it in the warehouse, but he never really said." Gordon chuckled. "You don't ask that guy a lot of questions."

Her eyes narrowed. "Really." She gingerly pulled out the shattered mirror and placed it next to the chessboard. "So I don't suppose you asked him whether it was in this condition when he found it."

Why he felt compelled to defend the Bat, Gordon didn't know. "I'm certain he wouldn't damage your purse, ma'am. What reason would he have?"

She lifted her eyebrows. "Chapped lips."

Gordon opened his mouth to respond, thought better of it, and took a long sip of his coffee. "Miss Somerville, could you please tell me what happened last night?"

- - - - - -

As Alfred had suspected, there was still a motionless lump beneath the blankets, even though the butler knew for a fact that the alarm had been set to go off at 7:45. Close inspection revealed that the snooze button had been hit hard enough to jam it.

Alfred pulled back the curtains. This move wasn't nearly as effective now as it was in the summer, when a full-bodied blast of sunlight would pour through the window, and indeed, the chill winter light seemed to be having no effect on the unconscious form. Obviously, more forceful action was necessary.

"Good morning, Master Wayne," Alfred announced, flinging back the covers. He found that the billionaire had anticipated this move and had his head buried beneath a pillow. Alfred ruthlessly removed it. "I thought you would want to know that Wayne Tower burned to the ground last night."

"What!" Bruce gasped, snapping bolt upright in bed. He took one look at Alfred's placid face and growled, "That is not funny."

"It was not my intent to be amusing, sir. You did ask to me to wake you early so that you could sit in on Miss Tracy's session with Master Dick."

"Is she here?" Bruce asked around a yawn.

"She arrived promptly at eight."

"All right. I'll be there in a minute." Yawning again, he rolled out of bed and into his morning pushups.

Fifteen minutes later, Bruce, very casually attired in a t-shirt and sweats, stood outside the schoolroom door. He slowly turned the handle and cracked the door open, hoping to slip in without being noticed. _A ninja understands that invisibility is a matter of patience and agility._

But in this case, his caution was hardly necessary. As the door opened, Dick's voice rang out merrily, "Look, Miss Tracy! I can do a backwards flip!"

Bruce stepped inside the room and saw his ward balanced on the edge of the tutor's desk.

"Dicky! Please don't, you'll hurt yourself!"

Dick ignored his teacher's pleadings and launched himself backwards off the desk. Miss Tracy gave a little shriek, then gasped in audible relief as Dick landed safely on his feet and punched the air in victory.

Instead of scolding the boy as Bruce expected her to, and as he frankly deserved, Miss Tracy clapped her hands and exclaimed, "How amazing! I didn't know you could do that!"

Bruce slid down against the wall and sat on the floor, arms folded, awaiting developments.

"I know lots of tricks. Want to see what else I can do?"

"Well, only if you're quite certain you won't hurt yourself."

Living up to his circus heritage, Dick exhibited gymnastic feats for half an hour, to Miss Tracy's enthusiastic approval. When they finally did sit down to schoolwork, it was fairly apparent that Dick did exactly as much as he wanted to – which wasn't much.

There was no longer any doubt in Bruce's mind that Miss Tracy had to be replaced. In fact, the only question he had left was how he had been stupid enough to hire her in the first place. She _had_ come with excellent recommendations, he consoled himself, although now that he thought about it, her last tutoring job had been with two little girls. Maybe the problem was that she didn't understand how to harness Dick's energy. But whatever the underlying reason for her poor work, Bruce was determined that he and Dick had both had enough of it.

It was Dick who finally spotted him. "Hey, Bruce!" He shot out of his chair, abandoning the handwriting exercise he had been laboriously _not_ working on for the last five minutes. "Hey, Bruce," Dick repeated, skidding to a stop, "did you need me for something?"

"Actually, no, but why don't you go find Alfred? I need to talk to Miss Tracy."

"Okay, Miss Somerville and I have to finish our game, anyway."

Bruce stood up. "Miss Tracy, are you teaching or conducting a circus?"

Her mouth dropped in shock. "I…I realize my methods may seem a little unorthodox, but I assure you they are tailored to Dick's individualized learning style. You may recall that I said your presence was not conducive to Richard's concentration."

"He had no idea I was in the room, and neither did you," Bruce snapped, then took a deep breath and smiled. "Why don't we continue this conversation down in my office?"

Funny how much easier it was to be calm and collected about firing someone when you were sitting in a plush leather chair behind a hefty mahogany desk. Bruce almost wished he'd bothered with a suit and tie. "Miss Tracy, after careful consideration of your work with my ward during these past months, and after discussing the situation with those who know the boy best, I have come to the conclusion that we will no longer be needing your services. I am certain that, with the right children, you are a fine teacher, but considering Dick's _individualized learning style_, I think he would do better with a different tutor. Someone with a stronger background in math, science, and discipline."

Miss Tracy sat rigidly in her chair, her mouth quivering. "This is because of _that woman_, isn't it?" she demanded. "She's poisoned you against me!"

He hadn't expected her to be so perceptive. "Miss Somerville did make a recommendation, but that was certainly not the only factor influencing this decision." Alfred, in fact, had confessed to increasing uneasiness over the tutoring situation. Much as Bruce hated to admit it, Somerville had been dead right about this woman.

"You realize, of course, why she's doing this?" Miss Tracy looked as if she might burst into tears any second. "She's hoping to weasel her way into your favor, making herself look good by making me look bad!"

_Somehow, I think the last thing Somerville's worried about is endearing herself to me._ For a moment, he felt a flicker of something that might have been gratitude.

"But I won't stand aside and let that woman take advantage of you! Bruce, you must see her for what she is!"

Miss Tracy's eyes were wide with sincerity, and Bruce could hardly believe she actually thought he would buy her line. Somerville was about number four billion and ninety on his list of people he'd like to be trapped on a desert island with, but at the moment, her open hostility seemed positively refreshing. He could feel a tension headache forming behind his eyes. _Somebody please let me go back to bed._

_To Be Continued..._

**A/N** Review responses are up on my homepage!


	23. Fluff, part 1

**A/N** I'm not dead! It's just that my life is insane x10 right now, and there's not much I can do about it. After posting the last chapter, I was plunged into the "last minute graduate school applications crisis," followed by the "MedEVIL Literature Paper," which came right before Easter Break, which was succeeded by a choir trip to the Big Apple (I got to see "Phantom" and "Lion King"! They were AMAZING!) from which I returned only this very evening.

**Disclaimer **So…I give you fair warning that this is not really a chapter. It is a part of a piece of not very good fluff inspired by several reviews which pointed out that Bruce and Richard's relationship has been somewhat neglected. The problem is that there aren't many scenes between them that forcibly advance the plot, but their relationship is, none the less, a very important part of this fic. Thus, the fluff. I had wanted to write at least three or four pages (there are only two here), but got less than four hours of sleep last night thanks to a stupid dinner cruise (ok, so the close-up night view of the Statue of Liberty and the skyline was pretty cool, but other than that I could have passed on the whole experience), and I have an eight o'clock class tomorrow.

Basically, this is just to let you all know that I am alive, and I am still working on the story. I really, really hope it will be finished by the end of summer (but one of the graduate programs I have applied to starts at the end of May, so…) I promise the story will continue. I just can't promise any regularity in updates. And believe me, I DO feel guilty about this!

So here it is: inferior quality, limited quantity fluff. And it hasn't even been proofread!

**Chapter 22**

**Fluff: Part One**

Miss Tracy finally left, crying streams of mascara. Bruce slumped down in relief, and was about to head upstairs to resume sleeping when his stomach rumbled.

He entered the kitchen and blinked at the veritable crowd that sat in its sunny interior. Lieutenant Gordon was at the table, digging into a stack of pancakes two inches high. Somerville and Dick sat across from each other at breakfast bar, bent intently over…_a chess board?_ And Alfred was at the stove, overseeing an enticingly sizzling pan of bacon.

"Good morning," Bruce offered to the room in general.

Gordon was the only one who even glanced up. "Morning, Mr. Wayne."

"Lieutenant. There hasn't been a crime on the premises or anything, has there?"

"No, I was just here to talk with Miss Somerville about her little run-in with the Joker last night."

Bruce affected surprise. "What?"

"Yeah, she was abducted last night."

Bruce turned toward the breakfast bar. "She didn't mention it."

"I saw no need in distressing anyone," Somerville said calmly, and moved a piece on the board. "Check."

Dick, however, was staring at his opponent and not at the board. "You got kidnapped by that…that guy again?" He sounded worried and scared.

"Only briefly," replied Somerville. "The Batman once again came to the rescue. You'd better use your bishop."

"Oh. If Batman was there, then you were ok," he said, relieved, and made his move.

"Breakfast, Master Wayne?"

"Please." Bruce dropped unceremoniously into a chair across from Gordon and picked up a section of the newspaper that lay on the table.

"By the way, Miss White called this morning," Alfred said as he set a plate in front of Bruce, setting down a stack of pancakes that was shorter and covered with less syrup than the lieutenant's.

"Who?" Bruce asked, sneaking an envious glance at Gordon's plate.

"Miss White, secretary to the vice chairman, sir."

Bruce nodded in recognition. "Oh right, the redhead."

"I wouldn't know, sir. But your meeting for this afternoon has been canceled. I'm afraid Mr. Perry has come down with a severe cold."

"Excellent," Bruce said happily, and dug into his pancakes.

Twenty minutes later, Gordon was gone, and Somerville had checkmated Dick and gone upstairs to get dressed. Bruce sat in sleepy comfort at table, enjoying the pale sunlight that was warming the back of his neck and watching his ward who was still bent over the chessboard, muttering to himself as he pushed pieces around. It suddenly occurred to Bruce that he really hadn't seen much of Dick for the past week, not, in fact, since Somerville had come. Although she was supposed to be observing their "normal routine," he'd been half afraid to let her see him around the boy lest he do something to earn her censure. And Dick himself hadn't been underfoot quite as much as usual.

Bruce looked thoughtfully at the boy who was carefully putting away the chess pieces. His face bore a typical look of concentration, but there were dark shadows underneath his eyes, and his fair skin looked unusually pale. _Maybe Somerville's bugging him as badly as she's bugging me_. "Hey kid," he said out loud. "You wanna do something to celebrate? As of right now, you are officially on Christmas vacation."

"Really?" Dick fell off his stool in his excitement, but he bounced up off the floor with an intriguing resemblance to a ping pong ball. "What will we do?"

"If I may be so bold, sir," began Alfred.

- - - - - -

Bruce pulled his ball cap a little lower and slumped down in his seat. The disguise was minimal – a thick flannel shirt on top of ragged jeans in addition to the hat – but so far it seemed to be working. After all, people's preconceptions were the best defense, and apparently no one was expecting to see Gotham's polished playboy slouching around like a bum. (Christmas shopping had been Alfred's idea and the disguises had been Bruce's. The last thing he and his ward needed was to be chased by some desperate photographer.) Beside him on the slick seat, Dick had his nose pressed to the grimy window, staring out at the skyscrapers flashing past. Ahead of them, the gleaming spire of Wayne Tower came into view and the boy turned excitedly. "Hey B…Pops, is that where you work?"

"Yup." Bruce groaned inwardly as the woman sitting across from them cast him a sudden, sharp glance. "I'm the best darn janitor in the whole building."

Dick giggled, delighted by the game. "Yeah, you mop faster'n anybody."

The woman's gaze dropped disinterestedly back to her magazine. He exhaled in relief as the train ground to a halt. "C'mon, Junior, this is our stop."

Dick sprang up, and Bruce just caught the back of his hoodie before he disappeared into the crowd rushing out the doors. "Careful, kid. Mind the gap."

They stepped out of the station into the brilliant winter morning. Despite the bitter breeze blowing from the north, the streets of Gotham's commercial district were filled with bustling shoppers and creeping traffic. Bruce grabbed Dick's hand and they raced across the street on the tail end of the cross signal, provoking horn blasts from three taxis.

Weaving their way through the crowd, they slipped into a revolving door and came out on the other side to find themselves in Gladelands, the second largest department store in the world. They had come through the front entrance into the main gallery, which was decorated for the season with a twenty-five foot, lighted Christmas tree and enough greenery to camouflage a 747.

Bruce looked down, expecting to find Dick staring in amazement at the Christmas spectacle, but instead the boy was scowling fiercely at his shoes.

"Is something wrong?" Bruce asked uncertainly.

"I thought we were going to shop, not look at stupid trees," the boy muttered.

"We are," Bruce assured him, thoroughly puzzled. "Who should we shop for first? Alfred?"

"Yeah," Dick agreed and all but dragged Bruce out of the gallery.

Once away from the tree gallery, Dick immediately cheered up. "What are we going to get?"

"I dunno. Got any ideas?"

Dick chewed his lip thoughtfully. "He likes flowers. And drinking tea. And pictures of naked people."

Bruce blinked in shock. "What?" he demanded.

"You know, at the museum."

"Oh." Realization dawned and Bruce bit back a chuckle. "That Renaissance art exhibit."

"Yeah." Dick rolled his eyes. "It was soooo booooring. Why didn't they wear clothes in the Renaissance?"

"Ah…" Bruce decided he didn't feel up to tackling Renaissance artistic theory. "I think you'd better ask Alfred. He can explain it better than I can. But it's a good idea. Why don't we start in the book store?"

They hunted through the art history section until they found a book full of prints of people in what Dick declared was a sufficient state of undress. Bruce turned away from the counter after paying to find his ward staring mesmerized at a display of hardcover The Star Wars Encyclopedia: Fully Illustrated A-Z of the Star Wars Universe.

"I bet it says everything about _Star Wars_," Dick declared in awe. "It would probably take me a million years to read it!"

_Not a bad idea…_ Bruce thought, and made a mental note to come back for the book. "Ok," he said out loud. "Who's next?"

"Rachel," Dick said firmly. "She needs perfume."

Bruce wondered how the kid knew that, but he led the way toward what he thought was the cosmetics department. It turned out to be pet supplies, but they picked up a tunnel extension for the other Rachel and got directions from the sales clerk.

At the perfume counter, Dick insisted on samples.

"This one's nice," Bruce said hopefully at the fifth bottle.

"No way, it smells like oatmeal," Dick insisted, and made the patient clerk produce five more samples before he found one that satisfied him. "This is good. It smells like sunshine."

"Great," Bruce agreed hurriedly. _If he's like this at eight, what's he going to be like at sixteen?_ "How about lunch?"

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** I told you it was short! But it's better than nothing, right? Also, there are no review responses this chapter. I feel really bad about all of this, but I wanted y'all know what was going on.


	24. Fluff, part 2

**A/N** Well, I've been picking at it a little every day, and I've actually managed to produce a full length chapter! Still fluffy, but hopefully amusing. Next week is finals, graduation, and then…SUMMER!

Also, I have added about two pages to the last chapter. Nothing much happens in it, but it helped integrate the fluff a little more smoothly. If you're interested in reading it, all the new material is right at the beginning.

**Disclaimer** I have no right to the name of McDonalds and the mechanical reindeer are definitely based on the mechanical moose from Gordon Korman's No Coins, Please.

**Acknowledgment** This chapter is especially dedicated to those wonderful reviewers who left a note for the last very pathetic "chapter."

**Chapter 23**

**Fluff: Part Two**

_Winnie the Pooh  
Winnie the Pooh  
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff  
He's Winnie the Pooh  
Winnie the Pooh  
Willy nilly silly old bear_

_Winnie the Pooh (Disney version)_

The food court was on the third level, and Dick walked all the way through it twice before finally deciding on a jumbo hotdog and waffle fries. Bruce shuddered and grabbed vegetable chow mein from the Chinese place next door before leading the way to a table by the railing, which overlooked the tree gallery. He'd inhaled half of his rice before he noticed that Dick had taken only a single bite of his hotdog and was picking listlessly at his french-fries.

"Not hungry?" Bruce asked tentatively, thoroughly puzzled. Not ten minutes earlier, the kid had been threatening to die of starvation.

Dick shrugged and used his fist to mash flat one end of a ketchup packet. He was frowning at it fiercely, as if the condiment were his new arch-enemy.

Bruce sighed inwardly. The kid was having mood swings like a PMS'd cheerleader. He'd been fine on the train, and then when they'd come into the store and seen the tree he'd looked like… _Wait a minute_. Bruce looked over the rail at the enormous Christmas tree as an unwelcome chain of thought slowly unwound itself.

"So," he began, using his chopsticks to elevate a piece of pineapple, "have you been here before?"

"Yeah," Dick muttered, and gave the ketchup packet a little pound with his fist.

"I bet," Bruce continued cautiously, "that your mom really liked the tree."

Dick hit the packet again, harder. The end exploded, spraying carnage across the tabletop.

_Bingo_, Bruce thought, as he reached for a napkin. "My mom really liked the tree too." He could, in fact, remember the year she'd been the one to light it. He remembered that she had worn white and had looked like the angels in the windows of the big cathedral.

Dick watched silently as Bruce cleaned up the spattered ketchup. "Where is she?" he asked finally, and he sounded a little startled, as if he had never considered the fact that Bruce must have a mother.

"She died," Bruce answered, surprised at how hard it was to say, even after more than twenty years. "But I like to come here and remember how much she liked the tree and how happy she was at Christmastime." He was conscious of lying as he said it. He knew that was how he ought to feel, but after his parents' death he'd buried that memory with all the others – buried it so deep that he hadn't thought of it until just now, when Dick's anguish called up the echo of his own. He instinctively braced, waiting for the rough wave of pain he associated with all thought of his parents. It didn't come. He found, to his surprise, that he had unintentionally told the truth. It was good to think of his mother on that day – the way her hair had shone around her head in a golden halo, the brilliance of her smile as she curled her hand around the switch and pulled, setting the tree ablaze with electric light. Under Ra's' tutelage he had released his anger, but in doing so, he had also set himself at a distance from his past, the good as well as the bad.

Bruce shook himself free of reverie and met Dick's eyes. "Isn't it a good memory, to think of your mom being happy?"

"Yeah," the boy said softly. Bruce could see that he was trying and trying hard. The flicker of smile wavered, died, and then Dick's face crumpled. He gave one valiant sniff before the sobs broke loose from his skinny chest, despite his efforts to muffle them with his hands.

Bruce wished that they were anywhere but here, in the brilliantly lit, echoing, overcrowded food court. The people at the next table were sending covert, curious glances their way, and a very short ways down the railing stood a petite woman in a dark coat who was staring at them intently.

Bruce shoved away his food and stood up, grabbing their bags before he stepped around the table. "Hey, buddy, it's ok," he crooned as he lifted the small boy. Dick threw his arms around Bruce's neck and buried his face in his fuzzy flannel shoulder as Bruce rapidly wove his way through the tables and entered the flow of people in the main corridors. He swung into electronics, and found it to be miraculously deserted. He gently deposited Dick on a bench and knelt beside him. The boy's sobs were easing, and he scrubbed a hand across his eyes, knocking the bill of his cap askew. Bruce pulled the hat off. "Hey, ok?" he asked, having no idea of what else he should say. _Strike one, Mr. Wayne_. With an unpleasant start, he realized it was Somerville's voice he was hearing in his head.

Dick nodded and hiccupped, still rubbing his eyes. They stayed frozen in uncomfortable silence, Dick refusing to look up, and Bruce searching desperately for a distraction. He finally noticed the elaborate display behind the bench. "Check out the trains!" he exclaimed, with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.

Dick scrambled around on his knees and stared intently. The display consisted of several tables at varying elevations, and across them was an elaborate electric train setup. Bruce waited a minute to let the kid regain his dignity before asking, "Shall we check it out?"

Dick nodded, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and grabbed hold of Bruce's hand. Bruce tightened his hold on the small figures and felt a funny tightness in the area of his heart. _Poor kid. I feel as competent as a yak a tea party…_

As they approached the trains, a small alarm bell went off in Bruce's head. He mentally replayed the scene he'd just witnessed and realized that he had noticed the woman from the food court furtively ducking behind a large pillar a short ways down the aisle. Bruce glanced uneasily around - this part of the store seemed to be a dead end, and the only way out was to go back past the pillar.

Keeping one part of his mind focused on their surroundings, he returned his attention to the display. A small but detailed train chugged through a miniature winter wonderland, complete with a station at Santa's workshop and a reindeer crossing where mechanical reindeer wandered back and forth across the tracks.

Dick dutifully stared at the whistling train, but his genuine interest was caught when Bruce pointed out the miniature masked men who were planting dynamite under the tracks. "These guys are going to blow up the train."

Dick tugged Bruce closer and bent until his nose nearly brushed the false snow. "That train's in big trouble. Hey, Bruce…Pops! Look!" Dick excitedly pointed to a pine tree beneath the trestle.

Bruce peered closer and then muttered, "Oh, no way."

Behind the tree, obviously ready to spring on the saboteurs, stood a tiny figure of Batman.

"That's so cool!" Dick was squeaking in excitement. "Those guys are in big trouble now!"

"A really charming setup. Are you considering a purchase, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce cursed silently. He had seen the food court woman approaching, but there had been no unobtrusive way to avoid her. He wondered whether ignoring her could possibly convince her that she'd mistaken his identity, but one look at her smug face told him that was a false hope.

"Excuse us," Bruce said flatly, and strode away, pulling a surprised and somewhat reluctant Dick behind him.

"Can't we look a little more?" the boy pleaded just as the woman said, "Look, Mr. Wayne, all I want is a couple of comments about the holiday – maybe a picture with the boy. What's it like having a child at Christmastime?"

He was striding fast now, Dick running to keep up as they burst into the middle of a group of shoppers. The reporter was hot on their heels. Bruce's eyes swept the corridor and hit on a very welcome blue sign. His long legs managed to put a short distance between them and their pursuer, and thirty seconds later he shoved through the door of the men's bathroom. The reporter followed.

A sudden silence filled the room as all movement froze. Bruce retreated to the far end of the sinks and awaited developments. They weren't long in coming.

The reporter had her eyes set on her prey, and she didn't see the man stepping into her path until she ran into him. He was big – both tall and broad. His head was shaved and his pectorals rippled beneath his muscle shirt. "Lady," he said, "I think you've made a mistake."

She flashed him a dismissive smile. "I just need to talk to him." She tried to dart around him, but a well muscled arm flashed out and caught her.

"Look, lady, I'm not some chauvinist that think women should stay in the kitchen – hey, my wife's got a better job than I do – but enough is enough." He took hold of both her shoulders and marched her toward the door. "You can burn your bras and vote pro-choice, but the men's room is still the men's room. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that we'd appreciate it if you'd use your own toilet." And with the final word he thrust her forcibly through the exit. A small round of applause burst from the other occupants of the room. The defender of the male right to privacy sauntered back through until he stood in front of Bruce. "My fellow man, I hate to break it to you, but you have got a serious problem."

"Tell me about it. Hey, thanks a lot!" Bruce stuck out his hand, and the stranger solemnly shook it.

"You look familiar," the guy said, squinting at Bruce's face. "You a model or something?"

"Uh…something," Bruce confessed.

The man nodded knowingly. "Women go nuts over that kind of thing. You think she'll be waiting for you outside?"

"Probably." The incognito billionaire glanced around the bathroom. "I don't suppose there's another way out of here that I'm just not seeing?"

"Well…" The stranger drawled and glanced around. The other occupants of the bathroom had gone back to their respective business and were paying no attention to the trio in the corner. "I'm not supposed to do this, but I guess this is an emergency." He led Bruce and Dick over to a gray metal door and pulled out a bunch of keys. "It's my day off, but I work here," he explained as he unlocked the door.

At first glance it appeared an ordinary supply closet, but their guide swung sharply to the left and a narrow passage appeared. He let his guests squeeze past and then carefully locked the door before resuming the lead. "Store's got a whole network of service passages," he explained as they traveled quickly down the dusty path. "No one's supposed to know about them but the security and the custodial staff." He stopped in front of a door that looked exactly like the one through which they had entered. "This is the bathroom by Appliances. Can you find your way from here."

"Yeah, thanks. You really helped us out."

The janitor waved his hand airily. "I got nothing against women, but sometimes men just gotta stick together."

Bruce reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a folded card. "Hey, listen, if you ever need anything, give me a call, ok?" A moment later, he and Dick were hurrying past the washing machines toward an outdoor exit.

"I've had enough shopping," Bruce declared.

"Me too," Dick agreed. "Man, that lady was crazy! Was she a reporter?"

"Yup," Bruce said as they shoved outside into the freezing air.

"Huh, you and Miss Somerville sure don't like to talk to reporters."

Bruce looked down at his ward. "Hey, Dick, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Bruce."

"Don't ever tell me I'm like Miss Somerville."

Because their lunch had been cut short, they ducked into McDonalds and grabbed a couple of Big Macs. (Alfred would have had a fit, but he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.)

As Dick licked the last of the ketchup off his fingers he asked, "Can we visit Rachel? She works near here."

Bruce hesitated. "She's a pretty busy lady. She might not like to be disturbed when she's at work."

Dick shook his head. "She said I could come and visit her anytime."

"Ok," Bruce agreed, and emptied their trays into the trash. "Let's go."

Rachel was in a meeting, but her secretary told them that it would just be a few minutes if they were willing to wait. She seemed to be on familiar terms with Dick and handed him a fistful of miniature chocolate bars which he shared with Bruce.

It was only ten minutes before Rachel came through the door, heavy briefcase in one hand and a weary look on her delicate face. Her features brightened when she saw Dick. "Hey, kiddo!" She bent down to give him a hug, then glanced over at Bruce. Her eyebrows flew up. "Don't tell me, plaid flannel is the new black."

"We're in disguise," Dick informed her. "But it didn't work very well. Some crazy reporter chased us."

Bruce settled back in his chair and watched intently as Dick related their adventure at Gladelands. Rachel gave the boy her full attention, her face covered with amusement, her hand resting lightly on the boy's shoulder. _She's really good with him_, Bruce thought. _She's really good with me, too_. Rachel glanced over, and something of his thoughts must have been reflected on his face because she flushed and immediately looked away. But she didn't look upset. He knew that the whole Batman thing on top of his disappearance had been almost more than she could handle, but lately he'd begun to hope for…for something. Something he wasn't quite ready to put into words.

Dick finished his story and Rachel glanced reluctantly at her watch. "I'm so sorry, but I have another meeting in five minutes."

"Come to dinner," Bruce invited.

She hesitated, but when Dick added his pleading, she smiled and acquiesced. "I'll see you guys tonight."

As they rode the elevator down to the ground floor, Dick slipped his hand into Bruce's and leaned a tired head against his guardian's arm. "I like Rachel."

"Yeah," Bruce said softly. "So do I."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Responses to reviews for the last chapter only will be up on my homepage.


	25. You know what?

**A/N** Yes! I am officially settled into my summer quarters! Still looking for a job, but hopefully that will come next week.

And now, as a special thank you for sticking with me all through this last semester when updates were few and far between, I now present for your reading pleasure a special, **12 page super-chapter!**

**Disclaimer** Decode the following disclaimer in order to discover my evil plot:

worromot i nalp ot erih eht eugael fo swodahs ot wolb pu cd scimoc – neht namtab lliw eb enim!

**Acknowledgement** This chapter probably owes equal credit to Orwell's 1984 and Gilbert Morris's In the Twilight, in the Evening.

**Chapter 24**

_I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate I do._

_- The letter of the Apostle Paul to the Romans_

She stood at the edge of the gas station parking lot and punched a number into her phone.

"About time you checked in," a voice informed her.

"I've found it," she said flatly.

"What?"

"Richard Grayson's secret."

- - - - - -

Bruce, Rachel, and Dick had already started on their salads when Somerville tromped into the room.

"I apologize for my tardiness," she said briefly.

Alfred had informed Bruce that the social worker had spent the afternoon interviewing the house staff, a relatively innocuous activity. The severely limited staff came only part of each day to do lightning cleaning sweeps (carefully orchestrated to avoid the activity of house's inhabitants) and, in the case of the chef and his assistant, to take the burden of main meals off Alfred's shoulders.

Salads were finished in silence, with Dick discreetly (or so he thought) mincing his broccoli stalk and hiding it beneath a spinach leaf. "Rachel Jr. knows a magic trick," he bragged, as Alfred cleared away the salad plates. "We've been practicing with the hat."

"What hat?" Rachel Sr. asked, and Dick was busy explaining about the peddler's market when his main course was set in front of him. Glancing down, he saw a neat pile of shredded broccoli next to his lasagna and glanced guiltily up at Alfred. The butler returned the gaze sternly, and Dick hastily shoved the broccoli into his mouth and chewed furiously.

Bruce bit his tongue to keep from smiling, but he nearly lost it when he met Rachel's amused eyes. "Why don't you give us a magic show after dinner?" he suggested hastily. Dick, still valiantly chomping the broccoli, nodded enthusiastically.

After they had finished dessert, Dick popped out of his chair. "Wait in the library," he commanded before racing out of the room.

Bruce stood and pulled out Rachel's chair. "Shall we adjourn to the library, Counselor?" Somerville, to his relief, turned toward the stairs instead of following them down the hall.

Rachel stopped and called, "Won't you be joining us, Miss Somerville?"

"Thank you, but I have work to do."

"But isn't this your work? Observing Dick and Bruce's interaction _is_ why you're paid to be here, or did I misunderstand?"

"No, you're quite right, Miss Dawes. I would be derelict in my duty if I allowed trivialities to keep me from joining you." Wearing a cool smile, Somerville padded down the hall toward them.

Bruce was torn between the desire to shake Rachel and curiosity over the undertones passing between the two women. More than their mutual dislike was at work in the conversation. The three settled themselves in the library, Bruce and Rachel on a short sofa, Somerville in a nearby overstuffed chair.

"Tell me, Miss Dawes, do you still do much work for Henry Judas?"

"Not as much as I would like, especially since last spring. But I try to encourage new associates to do any pro bono there."

"I'm certain Mr. Judas appreciates that."

"I know he does. Nothing's too good for his kids. He's just started up a choir at the home, actually, and is looking for an accompanist. You should offer your services."

Somerville smiled faintly. "I am afraid I no longer play."

"Too many really important things to do?" Rachel asked with faint sarcasm.

Somerville shook her head. "You never were very observant were you?" she asked, with a little laugh, and held up her crippled hand.

Rachel flushed, but before she could respond, Alfred entered the library. "Ladies and gentleman, presenting the master of marvelous mystery, the one and only magician of the manor, Richard Grayson!"

The butler stepped aside, and Dick, top hat on his head and his blanket tucked into the back of his t-shirt, entered. "Hey Alfred, that was pretty good."

"Thank you, sir. I always strive to give satisfaction." Alfred sat down in a straight backed chair near Somerville while Dick stepped in front of the crowd, swept his hat off his head, and flourished a low bow.

"Bravo!" Rachel cried, clapping enthusiastically.

Dick swept another bow, this time gesturing so forcefully with his hat that it flew out of his hand and rolled against the corner of Somerville's chair. "Oops," he grinned, and scrambled to retrieve it. "I shall now perform a most mysterious piece of magic, more marvelous than anything ever seen before in this manor. You see this hat?" He took it off his head and held it toward the audience. "It is empty." He flipped the hat right side up and thumped it for emphasis. "Completely empty. And yet, from this hat, I shall produce, by means of my magic art, a live gerbil." He balanced the hat, brim side up, on the palm of his right hand, and waved his left hand over it mysteriously. "Azarath, metrion, sinthos!" he commanded, and plunged his hand into the hat.

There was a moment of expectation, and then a look of puzzlement crossed the boy's face. He fumbled around the hat a moment longer, then peered inside it. "Uh oh."

A terrified scream brought Bruce to feet at the same time Somerville jerked out of her chair and kicked frantically. A small, furry body sailed through the air and plopped onto the carpet near Dick. "Rachel Jr.!" he shrieked and pounced, but the gerbil was quicker and darted under a sofa.

Somerville, her clenched right hand jammed against her mouth, ran out the door.

Bruce stared after her, then looked from Rachel, who was obviously trying very hard not to laugh, to Dick, who was on his hands and knees and pleading with the gerbil to come out.

"She must have escaped when I dropped the hat," the kid explained, his cheek mashed against the carpet.

Bruce dropped to the floor on the backside of the sofa and peered under. "You'd better go get the cage, Alfred," he suggested.

"Yes, Master Wayne," the butler agreed grimly, and Bruce, glancing up, was surprised at the sharp disapproval on the old man's face.

- - - - - -

Cecilia knelt on the low stool, hands pushing against the polished top of her dressing table. _Tiny, cold feet, pricking on hot skin_. "No," she muttered, and pressed her palms harder. _Think about marble, smooth, cold, feet pricking on hot skin, sharp teeth tearing._ "No," she gritted, clutching the edge of the table until her fingers ached. _Not this. Not here_.

The knock on the door seemed to crash like a bullet through a hundred panes of glass. She forced herself to stand, to breathe evenly, to turn the doorknob, to not look at the floor.

Pennyworth stood in the hallway, his face set in its usual expression of respect. "I thought you would like to know that the animal has been returned to its cage."

She rested her hand on the doorframe, not meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Can I bring you anything? A cup of tea?"

"No…yes, thank you. Tea would be nice." _A distraction_, she thought as she shut the door, _to engage the senses and defeat memory_.

There was another knock. This time, when she opened the door, Richard stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'm very sorry my gerbil scared you," he said, as he had obviously been instructed say.

"It's quite all right," she said, but he continued to stand there, staring at her. "Is there something else?"

"Why are you so scared of Rachel Jr?"

She sighed inaudibly. "Everyone's afraid of something, Richard. For me, it's rats and anything that resembles a rat."

"Oh," he said, and then repeated more slowly, "Oh." Without another word, he took off down the hall. She was still watching him when he slowed to a stop, stood debating, and then turned and trudged back.

"Yes, Richard?"

"I didn't do my reading today," he admitted.

"Well, we only played one game, so I didn't hold up my end of the bargain, either."

He sighed deeply. "Yes, but half of thirty minutes is fifteen."

"So it is," she agreed, with a hint of her familiar dryness, "and honesty can be a heavy burden. You had better go and choose a book."

- - - - - -

Alfred was on his way upstairs with the tea tray when he heard soft laughter drifting from the front hallway. He made a slight detour and saw Rachel with her coat on, standing patiently while Bruce wound her scarf around her neck and then pulled her hat so low it covered her eyes.

"Bruce! How am I supposed to drive?"

"Blind faith," he said teasingly. "Seriously, Rachel, let me drive you home. The roads are terrible tonight."

"Macho-chauvinist," she accused, her hat still pulled over her eyes. "Would it make you feel big and strong to drive the little woman home?"

"Yes. Be charitable and give my poor ego a boost."

"Your ego can take care of itself," she informed him, finally pushing her hat up. "I've been driving myself through Gotham winters for twelve years, and I don't intend to stop now."

"Well, be careful."

She rolled her eyes. "I always am."

"Whatever," he snorted.

"When have I ever…"

The tea was growing cold, so Alfred moved on, a wrinkle of concern creasing his brow. He liked Rachel Dawes a good deal, but when it came to her relationship with the master, he had to admit to certain reservations. The thought of Rachel and Batman filled him with unease, although he would have been hard put to say just why that was so.

As he came to the second floor landing and passed the TV room, he heard Dick's stumbling voice. "Ig-nit-"

"t-i-o-n," Miss Somerville interrupted.

"Shun. Ig-ni-shun."

"Very good, Richard, that will do for tonight." Dick stood up, NASCAR book tucked under his arm, and started to leave.

"Richard," the social worker called. "I'm sorry I kicked your gerbil."

"She's ok. I guess you didn't mean to."

"No, I did not."

"Goodnight, Miss Somerville."

"Goodnight, Richard."

Alfred carried his tray into the room. "Would you prefer to take you tea in here, Miss Somerville?"

"Yes, that will be fine. Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth." She reached for the remote and flipped on the giant, flat screen TV.

"Do you know, Miss Somerville," Alfred began in a thoughtful tone. "I believe I rather like you."

She didn't take her eyes off the screen, but he read the startled consternation that flashed across her face.

"Do you know, Mr. Pennyworth, I really don't think it's your place to offer that kind of an opinion."

"No, madam," he murmured apologetically and bowed slightly before leaving. _That's unsettled her,_ he thought cheerfully.

- - - - - -

"When I have I ever not been careful?" she demanded.

"Oh let me think…every time you ride the train by yourself late at night?"

"That's perfectly safe!"

"Yeah, that's why you almost got mugged last week."

"I didn't…how did you know about that?" she demanded, exasperated.

"Are you kidding? It was all over the street that the D.A. put tazer burns on one of the Rosa Negra gang. He didn't realize who you were until after."

"Maybe I should wear a nametag."

"Rachel…" He saw the stubborn look on her face and knew it was useless to argue further. "At least let me ride home with you. There's something I want to ask you about."

"How will you get home?"

He shrugged. "I'll catch a cab."

"All right, all right." Rachel led the way out to her car.

Bruce waited until they'd exited off the driveway and were speeding down the highway before he asked, "Do you know a Simon who does volunteer accounting work for Henry Judas?"

She threw him a quick look, but in the dark he couldn't read her expression. Her tone, when she spoke, was guarded. "Yes, I know him. Has Somerville been talking about him?"

"She hasn't said anything. His name came up in connection with another matter. Does she know him?"

"They did internships at Hearts and Homes at the same time. They seemed to get along quite well back then."

"Tell me about him."

"He's a nice guy. Aside from the business stuff he does for H&H, he volunteers a lot of hours to actually work with the kids – lots of informal sports stuff. He…he has a tendency to get too emotionally involved. When he was doing his internship, he lived on peanut butter and ramen noodles so that he could put his stipend toward athletic equipment. I heard Somerville chewing him out about it one day and calling him an idiot."

"Do you think he's an idiot?"

"No," she said quickly. "He just…gets a little too intense about things sometimes."

"He asked you out," Bruce guessed.

Her voice was rueful. "Was I that obvious?"

"It seemed like a slightly touchy subject."

Rachel sighed. "He only asked me out once, and after I turned him down he never mentioned it again. But he had this way of looking at me whenever he saw me like…like the best part of his day had just happened. It was unsettling."

"But you weren't interested?" he asked casually, just to clarify the matter.

"At that point, I was still waiting for you to come home."

_Oh_. He really wanted to ask when she had stopped waiting, but was pretty sure it was smarter to keep his mouth shut.

Rachel pulled the car over. "There's a taxi stand right there. No point in you going all the way to my building."

"I get the hint," Bruce said lightly and opened his door. "Have a good night, Rachel."

- - - - - -

Jim Gordon sat huddled over a mug of cocoa beneath the yellow light of the room's single dim bulb. He had been tossing and turning for the last two hours, and when Barbara had finally mumbled something unintelligible but definitely grumpy, he had deserted the bedroom for the kitchen. After his early-morning visit to Wayne Manor, he returned to the station to find that the DNA testing attempt to identify the burned corpse as Andrew Williams had been successful. Considering the affluence of the victim, he had expected the commissioner to break the news to family. Instead, he had found himself been elected to make the visit. It had been an extremely unpleasant experience, and was, in fact, the reason he was sitting here with a mug of scalded cocoa instead of lying fast asleep next to his wife.

A faint scratching sounded at the window. Gordon glanced and nearly jumped out of his skin. A hideous face, black and horned, was glaring at him through the glass. Muttering, Gordon grabbed a napkin to mop up his spilled cocoa before going to open the window. He'd gotten used (mostly) to the meetings on the shadowed roof of the police station – an eerie location that matched the costume. But having the Bat peer in through the kitchen window was another experience entirely.

Gordon threw up the sash and shuddered as the icy night air bit through his pajamas. "Won't you come in?" he invited with dry irony, certain he would be turned down. It was with a sense of complete unreality that he heard Batman growl, "Thanks," and watched him climb over the sill.

Gordon carefully shut the window and tried to figure out what to do next. When he turned back around, Batman was standing in the shadows on the far side of the ill-lit room. (With his promotion, they were really able to afford a better apartment, but Barbara said she wanted to save up for a down payment on a house, and that was that. Besides, the neighborhood wasn't _that_ bad.) He took up more space than he had any right to do, absorbing what little light there was until the room was smothered in his shadowy presence. Gordon almost stepped back, then shook his head in sharp irritation. After all, it was _his_ kitchen. His glance fell on his cooling mug on the table. "Would you like some…no, you wouldn't."

Batman ignored the comment. "You've ID'd the body?"

"It was Williams, like we thought."

"How did the family respond?"

"The wife went into hysterics. Actually fell down on the couch and had a fit. The daughter went real white and quiet. I thought she was going to pass out, but she hung in there."

"You're searching the house?"

"Yeah, we got permission. But the guy's been dead for days. Whoever ordered his murder has probably eliminated anything we'd want to see."

"You don't think the Joker planned this one."

"It doesn't fit the profile. The other killings we can link him to are all connected to robbery. He didn't get anything out of this one. No, I think he was the hit man."

"You think…" Batman broke off, his gaze directed over Gordon's shoulder.

The lieutenant turned and saw his eleven-year-old daughter standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, her curls in a frizzy halo around her head. "You're the Batman," she whispered, awed.

Gordon stood, not certain how he felt about having the Bat and his baby girl in the same room. "Sweetheart, you need to go back to bed." He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently steered her down the hall. She craned her neck, trying to get a final glimpse of the dark figure.

"Why is he here, Daddy?"

"We had some business to talk about." In her room, he straightened the sheets and pulled them up to her chin. "Listen, Babsie, let's not tell Mommy about this, ok?"

The younger Barbara nodded knowingly. "She'd be mad. She says you should stop bringing your work home all the time."

"And no need to upset her, right?"

"Ok, Daddy. It's our secret." She winked at him, and Gordon bent and kissed her cheek.

"Go back to sleep."

He had expected Batman to be gone when he returned to the kitchen, but the cloaked figure was still there, casually leaning against the wall as if unaware he looked as out of place as an elephant on Main Street. "What did the social worker tell you?"

"That the Joker was asking questions about the Grayson kid. He worked her over pretty good," Gordon added, almost as an afterthought.

"Yes. I saw part of it."

"It was for real then. Guess that kind of squashes our theory about her working for him." Gordon picked up his cold cocoa and walked over to the sink to dump it out. "Still, it's strange about that kid. I would have sworn the Joker grabbed him without knowing who he was, but maybe that somehow sparked an interest. Could he be considering a kidnap/ransom?"

"Jim?"

Barbara stood in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen, staring at him.

"Ah…"

"Who are you talking to?"

Gordon glanced cautiously over his shoulder. The Bat was gone. _I thought I might actually get to see him leave this time_. He gestured to the empty kitchen. "Myself. Obviously."

Barbara looked worried. "Come back to bed, Jim, it's cold without you."

"All right, babe, I'll be there in a minute. I'll clean this up first." He gestured with his mug. She sent him another covert, anxious glance before turning and leaving.

Gordon ran water into his mug, then crossed to the fire escape door and quietly slipped the deadbolt back into place.

- - - - - -

"What's on the schedule for tomorrow, Alfred?" Bruce asked as he stripped out of the suit.

"You will be visiting the Gotham Snowy Spectacular Winter Fair, accompanied by Master Dick and Miss Somerville."

"I have to be seen in public with her?"

"You also volunteered to help give away the lottery prizes for the children's hospital benefit."

"You volunteered me," Bruce corrected.

"It is a worthy cause, sir. Will there be anything else for tonight?"

"Speaking of our uninvited guest, what did you think of her little display tonight?"

"I didn't perceive anything more than that she is afflicted with more than her share of the typical female fear of rodents. To be honest, I was more curious about Miss Dawes' reaction. If I had to make a wager, I would have guessed that she knew of Miss Somerville's fear before she ever brought the creature into this house."

"You think she brought the gerbil just to scare Somerville? Petty games aren't exactly Rachel's style, Alfred."

"No, sir, I wouldn't have thought so, either. Perhaps there is some other explanation."

"I'm sure there is." Bruce put away the last of Batman's gear and headed for the study entrance. "Goodnight, Alfred."

He was still pondering the butler's suggestion when he entered his bedroom and saw Dick curled up in the middle of the enormous bed. _Now what_? Bruce wondered uneasily, but whatever had been bothering the kid had apparently not been enough to keep him awake. _I'll shower, and then I'll cart him back to his own bed,_ Bruce decided. However, when he emerged from the bathroom (steaming and pajama-clad) Dick was awake and sitting up, his knees pulled against his chest.

Bruce sat across from him, imitating his posture with his knees held loosely in the circle of his arms. "What's up?"

"Bruce, have you ever been really, really scared of something?"

Bruce got the feeling they weren't talking about the usual bedtime fears. "Why do you ask?"

"Miss Somerville said that everyone's afraid of something."

_Did this have to come from her_? Bruce wondered grumpily. "Bats," he said out loud. "I'm afraid of bats."

Dick's mouth dropped open. "No way."

"It's true. When I was a little younger than you, I fell into an old well. Turned out it was a roosting place for bats, and they scared the…snot out of me."

"And just from that you were scared? I mean…_really_?"

_Only to this kid is falling into a well no big deal_. He closed his eyes, knowing what he would see. _Pearls._ He didn't want to talk about this, but apparently, it was required. "A few months after I fell, I was still having nightmares about bats. My parents and I went to the theater to see an opera, and during the show there were bats. They frightened me, and I asked if we could leave." Bruce sighed and opened his eyes. Dick was watching him intently. "When we got outside, a man tried to rob us. But the whole time he was holding that gun, he was afraid, and finally, he got so afraid that he shot my dad. And my mom."

"But he didn't want to?" Dick whispered.

"No." Bruce marveled at how easily the word slipped out. "He let his fear control him." That had been a hard thing to accept – that he and his parents' killer had something in common. "I've been terrified of bats ever since."

"But why do you…" Dick trailed off, reluctant, even in their current solitude, to give voice to the secret.

"Why did I choose a bat?" Bruce finished for him. "A lot of reasons, but one of the big ones was that if I was ever going to keep my fear from controlling me, I had to embrace it."

Dick looked completely confused.

Bruce frowned, struggling to find words this eight-year-old would understand. "I have to admit that I'm afraid. And then I have to choose that I'm not going to let my fear control what I do."

"How do you just…choose that?"

"It's not easy. And it takes practice. So that's why…there's the Bat. Every day I feel afraid, and every day I have to decide that the things I do won't be affected by that fear. It's like falling down the same flight of stairs over and over again. But every time you fall, you get up a little bit faster. And every time you get up, you're a little bit stronger. And by now, I've practiced so many times that I hardly even notice my fear anymore." Bruce fell silent and examined his ward. Dick was sitting very still, his hands curled into tight fists around the loose fabric of his pajama pants. "So what you are afraid of?"

Dick took a shaky breath. "Clowns. But I don't why! I just am." There was a hint of hysteria in his voice.

Bruce reached out and grabbed his kid's shoulder. "Hey, it's ok. Sometimes the things that give us fear happen to us when we're really young, before we can even remember."

Dick buried his face in his knees. "It's so dumb. I tried not to be afraid. I tried so hard, but I can't."

"It's not dumb," Bruce said firmly. "We can work on it together."

The boy looked up. "You'll help me?"

"Of course. I had someone to help me. I didn't figure out all that stuff on my own."

"Who?"

_Teacher? Enemy? Father?_ "He was my friend."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Whew! I can't believe I wrote that whole thing! I'm tired…

Forecast for updates: I've made a list of summer resolutions, including (but not limited to) taking my daily vitamin and finishing this story by August 1! So updates should be coming at least once a week – more often, when I can manage it.

By the way, I've been accepted into a graduate English Lit. masters program and offered an assistantship!

A special prize will be awarded to anyone who can tell me where Dick's magic words come from.

Again, thank you, thank you, thank you to all reviewers! I can't say enough how much I appreciate your encouragements and criticisms.

Responses to reviews can be found by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.


	26. What?

**A/N **One week, to the day! This, at least, is one summer resolution that's off to a good start. (Ok, ok, so I procrastinated until 11 o'clock last night.)

Congratulations to graymouse, Starpossum, Kykimolyr, ladidah, Simply Myself, and especially Gewher (who got it first), for correctly identifying Dick's magic words as Raven's mantra from _Teen Titans_. (For those of you who don't know, _Teen Titans _is a cartoon about a group of teenaged super heroes led by…you guessed it…Robin.) As your prize, each of you appears, in one form or another, in this chapter. Also, congratulations to Estel Kenobi, who answer, I unfortunately did not receive in time to write her into the chapter.

**Disclaimer **I don't think I want to take responsibility for this chapter, which did not turn out the way I had envisioned it. It, along with all other things Batman, belongs to DC Comics.

**Acknowledgment** B.C., by Johnny Hart

**Chapter 25**

"_Big money! Big money!"_

_- Wheel of Fortune contestant mantra_

"You're probably wondering why I've called you all here." Gatsby folded his hands on top of his desk and smiled at his own humor.

There were no answering smiles from across the desk. Morales maintained his usual hauteur, using his position on the far left to observe the men sitting on both sides of the desk. Next to him, Earle shifted uncomfortably, sullen-faced. Henry Judas, looking as if he would like to be anywhere but here, huddled in his chair, his eyes flickering nervously from Gatsby to the man on the far right of the row. As he examined this last man, Gatsby's smile deepened. The Joker grimaced back, exaggerating the unnatural curve of his mouth.

"We are here, first of all, to honor our fallen comrade, Andrew Williams. You all know now that his body has been identified by the police. Andy was an integral part of this operation, and no one regrets more than I do that it became necessary for him to leave us."

They all heard what he left unspoken. _Make certain it does not become necessary for you to leave us._

"Secondly," Gatsby continued, "I wanted to make certain that everyone has a precise understanding of the situation. We are gathered here to acknowledge each other as we have never before done, because if we hang, we will certainly all hang together." He paused, in case someone felt cocky enough to respond. No one did. "Then let's move on. Tonight, there are to be no mistakes."

- - - - - -

Bruce stopped next to yet another sculpture of a swan. Although the ice art competition had occasionally been in danger of becoming a little drippy beneath the pale winter sunshine, the sculptures faced no such hazard this year. With wind chill at four degrees Fahrenheit, and a thickly overcast sky, winter fair attendees were in danger of becoming frozen figures themselves. Bruce, despite his layers, shivered, and glanced in amazement at Dick, who was trying to bend his neck at the same incredible angle in which the swan's was posed and was apparently completely impervious to the cold. In Bruce's opinion, the only good thing about the situation was that Somerville was more miserable than he was. Bundled so thickly she could barely move, the social worker had wordlessly trudged after them for the past two hours, supposedly observing them, although Bruce wondered how she could observe anything through the narrow eye slit between her scarf and her hat.

Dick, tired of trying to imitate the swan and frankly bored with the whole exhibit, looked up at Bruce. "Can we go?"

Bruce glanced at his watch. "Yeah, we'd better. Only fifteen minutes until they start drawing for the raffle prizes."

They made their way against the wind toward the giant show building that dominated the center of the state fairgrounds. Inside, it was crowded but wonderfully warm. Dick immediately started to unwind his scarf and unzip his coat. Somerville left her attire as it was. Bruce did too, more to keep from being recognized than because he was still cold. The carnival was basically one big fundraiser, and he didn't have time to get nabbed by a million good causes before he was due in the arena.

Unfortunately, Dick had already wandered over to one of the tables that lined the entryway and was staring at a large sign that read "Possums Are More Than Road Kill."

The woman behind the table smiled at Dick, but pitched her voice to carry to Bruce. "Did you know that this state's possum population is in grave danger of being eliminated, thanks to the massive amounts of air and water pollution released by Gotham? Not to mention that this state ranks first in the nation for reckless driving, and…"

"Do you take cash?" Bruce interrupted, deciding it was the fastest way out.

The woman blinked. "Yes, of course," she said a little dazedly. Apparently, the possums didn't usually inspire such hasty generosity. Bruce hauled out his wallet and handed over a couple of bills. The woman smiled hugely and produced a vaguely possum-like stuffed animal which she handed to Dick. Attached to its ear was a star shaped tag that read, _Star Possum Protector_.

"Thank you, sir, thank you very much!" she called after them, as Bruce took a firm grip on Dick's hand and hurried through the crowd. They made it to the arena without further incident and went in through the VIP entrance.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne, there you are!" A relieved woman in a gray suit bustled up to them. "We've reserved seats for you just over there. When it's time for the drawing, we'll announce you, and you just go up. Not too complicated. And Mr. Wayne, let's keep things simple and moving fast." She hurried away before Bruce had a chance to respond.

"Olivia Fairfax," he offered to Somerville as they headed toward their front row seats. "She's the chairwoman of the fundraising committee for the children's hospital. Good friend of Alfred's."

They were seated in the very front row of the bleachers, along with a number of distinguished looking people in business attire. Bruce wondered if he was supposed to have dressed up, but supposed Alfred would have seen to it that he would have if he needed to.

They had just gotten settled with Dick between Bruce and Somerville, when a screeching peal of laughter came from behind them, and two clowns capered down the stairs. One had on the traditional fluorescent wig, heavy makeup, and baggy suit with pompom buttons. The other had on a full body costume of a gray mouse, and over that had put brightly striped pants with suspenders. The mouse carried a balloon pump, and every few steps she would pause and blow up a balloon which she handed to her buddy to tie and twist into an animal shape. All the way down the steps, little kids could be seen waving dogs, giraffes, parrots, and other inflatable wildlife.

The moment the clowns came into view, Bruce felt his ward shrink against him. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, trying to convey encouragement. Dick was hiding his expression by staring at the floor, but when two gigantic pink tennis shoes appeared in his line of vision, he jumped beneath Bruce's hand.

"A leetle doggy for the leetle boy, yes?" the clown asked in a very fake Italian accent, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Peepasqueak! A balloon!" The mouse immediately capped the pump with a blue rubber tube and began pumping frantically. Less than a minute full of balloon squeaks later, a bright blue Wiener dog had morphed in the clown's hands. He extended it toward Dick, who remained motionless. "Don't worry, he doesn't a-bite," he said, then glanced questioningly at Bruce.

Bruce shrugged slightly and kept his eyes on his ward, who sat rigidly on the bench. Finally, he stretched out a hand and caught the dog by the end farthest from the clown's fingers.

"That's-a good-a dog for a good-a boy," the clown said approvingly before moving on.

Dick sat very still, holding his balloon with the tips of his fingers. At last he peeked up at Bruce, his face white.

Bruce smiled slightly. "Good job," he mouthed.

Dick sat up straighter and took a firmer hold on his balloon.

"And now," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker, "the moment you've all been looking forward to. We are about to draw the winning numbers for the Snowy Spectacular Sweepstakes, all proceeds of which go to support Gotham's own children's hospital. And helping us to find the lucky winners tonight is Mr. Bruce Wayne. Give it up for Bruce, folks!"

The arena filled with applause, cheers, and a few catcalls as Bruce jogged to the center of the ring. He smiled and waved, as an assistant pinned a lapel mike onto his coat.

The voice continued, "And helping Bruce give away our great prizes, the hottest model in America, who is proud to call Gotham her hometown, Miss Kykimolyr Kannakiri!"

The audience again erupted with cheers and whistles as the supermodel, sporting the sequined latest in high fashion winter wear, joined Bruce in the middle of the ring. He helped her pin on her mike, smiling with lazy charm. "Awfully nice of you to join me, Kyki…Ky…Can I call you Kim?"

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "You can call me anything you want to, Bruce."

More whistling from the audience.

They gave away computers, flat screen TVs, $500 gift certificates to Gladelands, a year's worth of frozen pizzas, and cruise tickets. Finally Olivia Fairfax announced, "And, the moment you've _really_ all been waiting for, the drawing for our grand prize. Bruce, if you would?"

Bruce plunged his arm into the gigantic Santa hat and made a big show of rummaging around in the tickets while Kim slipped to the back of the arena. At last he grasped a piece of cardboard and held it up. "Number 6027!"

A piercing scream erupted from the top row of bleachers, and it continued as a girl, waving a ticket over head, raced down the steps. The shrill shrieking stopped only when, completely out of breath, she skidded to a stop in front of Bruce.

He double checked the number on her ticket. "Number 6027, congratulations!" The girl pressed her hands over her mouth to repress a squeal. "What's your name?"

She lowered her hands. "Gewher."

Not certain he'd heard right, Bruce decided against trying to repeat it. "And you know what you've won?"

"I WON THE CAR!" she screeched and threw her arms around his neck.

"Yes," he gasped, patting her on the back, "you certainly did. And look!" He removed himself from her stranglehold and pointed to where Kim was driving a deep red Corvette into the arena. "There it is!" Gewher shrieked and took off running. Bruce slipped over to his seat. "Let's get out of here."

Somerville helped Dick pick up the various pieces of his winter gear that lay strewn on and under the seats, and then they made a beeline for the exit. They were almost out of the building when a most unwelcome voice accosted them.

"Have your holiday spirits improved, Mr. Wayne?" The reporter from the mall planted herself firmly in their path.

Bruce didn't even bother trying to be courteous. "Excuse us," he muttered, and shoved past.

"Well, la-di-dah," she sneered, hurrying after them. "Too good to talk with the press are we?"

"The press, no. You, yes."

"That wouldn't be because you're in some kind of trouble you wouldn't want me to find out about, would it? Say, a custody battle?"

_Don't even think about it_, Bruce warned himself as delightful images of the reporter dangling from the high metal beams of the building flashed through his mind. He tightened his hold on Dick's hand and continued to shove toward the exit.

"And who are you?" the reporter demanded behind him.

Bruce came to an abrupt stop. _Somerville._ The two current least favorite women in his life were standing toe to toe, neither looking ready to budge.

"I," said Somerville deliberately, "am Richard's nanny."

"And do you have any comment on why Mr. Wayne seems so reluctant to give any comment?"

"Yes, of course. Excessive media attention is unhealthy for a child of Richard's age. If you continue in this manner, you will likely find yourself facing charges of harassment. Actually," Somerville paused, looking thoughtful, "there was a similar case in California two years ago. The journalist in question is now serving jail time. Do enjoy the fair." She smiled and swept on. Bruce and Richard hurried after her.

"Bruce, what does la-di-dah mean?" Dick asked breathlessly, as they approached the parking lot.

"It's what you say when you think someone is acting snobbish or fake."

"Oh. Were you being fake?"

"Nope," Bruce responded, clicking open the locks as they approached the car. "In that case, I was being simply myself." _And Somerville was being simply hers. I never thought I'd be grateful for that._

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Somehow, this chapter ended being a lot of filler. I apologize for that. Next chapter, I will not be procrastinating until the last minute. :-) Wait…it's due to my beta tomorrow. Drat.

Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.


	27. They didn't ask you

**A/N** Ok, so this chapter is teensy, weensy bit late, but that's because my beta and I needed to get our schedules coordinated. Yes! I now have a beta! IcyWaters has graciously agreed to take on the fearful task, and thanks to her hard work, the quality of your reading experience will definitely be improving.

**Disclaimer** I did not create Batman. I do have half a bag of M&Ms hidden in my underwear drawer.

**Acknowledgment** To the Klunk, who, despite my new and improved set of wheels, will always hold a special place in my heart.

**Chapter 26**

_Despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt._

_The Lord of the Rings_

Simon picked her up at six o'clock, still driving the same rusting Buick he had owned five years ago, when she first met him.

"I can't believe this thing hasn't completely disintegrated," she commented as they pulled down the Manor driveway.

"She's a faithful old girl. Bit useful, actually, the way she sheds a trail of pieces everywhere we go. I can always find my way home, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest." In contrast to his nervous demeanor of last week, Simon was alert, talkative, and cheerful. He positively chattered as he brought her up-to-date on the latest events at H&H, touching only lightly on his own contributions, but warmly praising his coworkers' efforts. And nowhere in the stream of babble did the name of Henry Judas surface. Considering the subject matter, Cecilia found that distinctly odd.

"What does the old man think about the changes?" she asked deliberately, after he explained how more and more of the running of the home was turned over to an elected committee of community members.

For a moment, his lighthearted expression shifted, like a mask whose string suddenly pulled loose, but then he shrugged, denying any importance in her words. "He speaks very approvingly of the interest local people are taking in the kids. But I suppose that underneath it must be a little hard to let it go. He's never been good at delegating."

"No," she agreed.

Simon's phone rang, and he flipped it open with one hand, glancing at the number. "Speaking of…" he murmured, before answering. "Hey, Boss…I'm out with Cecilia Somerville…uh huh…I see…Right away?...No, I'm sure she won't mind." He hung up and turned to Cecilia. "There's a bit of a situation over at the Home. Judas was wondering whether we would mind stopping by to take care of it."

They pulled up in front of the office annex on the Home compound. Another car was already sitting in front of the building, waiting for them. The car's driver climbed out as they approached.

"Mr. Jay?" Simon asked, extending his hand.

"Yes." The man reached out and shook the offered hand. "And you are Simon Golding. Mr. Judas said you would come."

Simon gestured toward the building. "Why don't we go in where it's warm?"

Inside, they all shrugged out of their coats and sat in padded chairs in the receptionist's area. Simon leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. "So, Mr. Jay, what can I do for you?"

"It's about Paul, one of the boys who comes to the sports programs here. I'm an English teacher, and he's in my class at school. I have all the students keep a journal, and, well, this was the latest entry in Paul's." He handed Simon a folded piece of notebook paper.

The accountant smoothed it out and scanned the penciled scrawl. "I don't quite understand. Who is Leroy?"

"Leroy is a character in a short story we read in class. In the story, he uses marijuana to help alleviate the pressures caused by his unemployment and crumbling marriage."

"So when he says here that Leroy has the right idea…"

"That's what I'm afraid of." Jay threw up his hand as if to ward off an expected protest. "I know, I know, all the kids do it, and it's just pot. But I happen to know that Paul's mother has done an excellent job up to this point of keeping him out of the street gangs and drug free. And we all know weed is just a stepping stone to other things, not that it doesn't do plenty of damage on its own. I was hoping there was someone here on staff who knew him well enough to maybe talk to him. He speaks highly of his experiences here."

Simon nodded. "Definitely."

"Let me give you my number then, I'd like to know how this comes out." Jay pulled a pen out of his pocket with his right hand and scribbled on the back of a card, which he handed to Simon. They all stood. "I'm sorry," the teacher said suddenly, turning to Cecilia. "I guess we never got introduced."

"My fault!" Simon interrupted. "This my coworker, Cecilia Somerville."

"Nice to meet you." Jay extended his left hand.

She shook it. _An observant man. _"Likewise. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Jay." The slender hand that held hers in a firm grip was as pale as his face – the fate of Gotham's Caucasian population during the winter.

"You never know about teachers," Simon remarked as they drove away. "Sometimes they're like that guy – genuinely concerned about the kids they're lecturing. And sometimes they seem to deliberately search for self-destruct buttons so that they can push them as hard as they can."

"Maybe the chalk dust goes to the brain."

Her dry comment unexpectedly gave Simon the giggles, and he was still chuckling when the hostess escorted them to their table in the restaurant. He refused to settle down during dinner, pulling out string after string of corny jokes and pointless stories, all of which he found highly amusing. Cecilia watched him with a faintly puzzled look. Finally, he plopped his chin into his hands and grinned at her. "So, what's it like?"

"What's what like?" she responded, using her fork to stab the last pieces of her salad.

"Living in Wayne Manor. With a Wayne."

"The food is good." She put down her fork and pushed away her plate.

"That's it? Come on Cecy, even you have to be impressed on some level."

"Mansions are drafty, inconvenient places."

"So how about Wayne? Has he bowled you over with his famous charm?"

A faint sneer curved her lips. "Surely you jest."

"He was voted Gotham Gossip's sexiest man of the year. And he hasn't even been back in town a year."

"Ever notice how that 'sexiest' title never goes to anyone with less than fifty million in their bank account?"

"So cynical." He shook his head disapprovingly. "I can't believe all the adulation of the tabloids springs just from his money. He must have some worthy qualities."

"Simon, you know you can't believe everything Rachel Dawes says."

The goofy smile that hadn't left his face all evening abruptly disappeared.

Cecilia sighed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

Simon shrugged. "Doesn't matter, it was a long time ago." He stared moodily at his water glass, running a finger around the rim. "Not like she ever knew I was on the planet, anyway."

A stiff silence grew between them, and it was with obvious relief that Simon took the bill from the waitress. "Let's go," he said, abruptly pushing back his chair.

"But you haven't touched your dinner," she protested.

"I wasn't hungry. To tell you the truth, I had tea with Henry less than two hours ago."

When they were both sitting in his car he asked, "You want to come over for a while?"

"If you don't mind," she said pointedly.

He glanced over at her, and even in the dim light she could see that the nervous tension he had worn last week had returned. He started the car up without speaking, and they drove in silence to a street of shabby apartment buildings.

"You still haven't moved?" she demanded in disbelief.

He shrugged. "Crime rate's actually gotten a lot better."

She shook her head, but a small smile escaped. "It's nice to know some things never change. I suppose you have a cupboard full of peanut butter and jelly, too?"

"No, my mom told me to start eating right or she was going to move in with me."

Cecilia laughed, but there was no answering smile on Simon's face as he pulled an armload of grocery bags from the back seat. Despite his boast about the crime rate, he glanced around nervously as they walked up to the door. "Punch in the code for me, would you? 5598."

"This, at least, is an improvement," she remarked as she punched in the numbers and the door clicked open.

Inside, they climbed up three flights of dimly lit, slick concrete stairs. In front of his door, he jerked his chin at the upper right hand corner. "The key's up there in a crack."

"Simon!"

"Only people who know the code can get into the building," he said defensively. "And sometimes kids just need a place to come for a while."

"If you're murdered in your bed, you have no one to blame but yourself," she muttered as she unlocked the door. The apartment was a mess – newspapers, take-out boxes, and stacks of files littered every available surface. "Maybe your mother should move in," she suggested as she watched Simon pick his way through the mess to the kitchen. Rolling her eyes, she picked her way over to a window that provided a direct view into the neighboring building. She pulled the curtains, raising a cloud of dust that caused her to choke. "Simon," she gasped, wheezing.

He stuck his head out of the kitchen, a guilty expression on his face. "Er, sorry. You want some water?" She nodded, and a moment later, he emerged with a bottle of water. "You can't trust the pipes in this place. The water comes out rusty."

"Lovely," she muttered, twisting the cap off.

"You want to go for a walk?" he asked abruptly.

She swallowed her mouthful of water and stared at him. "No, I don't want to go for a walk. It's freezing out there. Not that it's much better in here. Do you get heat?"

"If the landlord's in a good mood." He turned away and perched on the back of the sofa. "Maybe you should go home."

Cecilia screwed the cap back on her bottle and set it on the windowsill. "Simon, what is going on?"

"Nothing," he muttered, kicking his heel against the sofa.

"You're so nervous you would probably swoon if I said 'Boo.'"

"I…it's just…Cecy, do you ever feel like…like you got on the wrong train, and now it's racing forward, and you can't see where you're going because everything you thought you knew has been lost in the darkness…" He shuddered and closed his eyes.

"The future is always dark, Simon," she said slowly. "No one can see the end."

"No light at the end of the tunnel?" he asked, trying to joke and failing.

"No."

"I used to think I could see, that the world was full of light. But maybe it's only now that I really see. There isn't any real light, is there Cecy?" A strong current of despair underlined his words, and he was visibly trembling.

"Of course there is," she said gently. "You carry it with you. That's what I always thought you were doing with your stupid sandwiches and this crummy apartment."

"Thanks," he muttered.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"No," he said with sudden decision. "But thank you."

She didn't have the heart to bully him in his current condition. "Go to bed, Simon. You look terrible."

"I…I think I will. I feel terrible."

"I'll just call a cab. I have the number in here." She unzipped her purse and rummaged for the slip of paper

"Let me call it for you. Sometimes they're a little reluctant to come to this part of town, but they know me."

"All right," she agreed, setting her purse on the table next to the phone and ducking down the hall to the bathroom. As she was washing her hands, she examined the shelves of the medicine cabinet, which stood wide open. Its only contents were a ratty toothbrush, an almost empty tube of toothpaste with the lid off, and a balled up tissue. Shaking her head, she threw away the tissue, put the cap on the toothpaste, and shut the mirrored door before going back to the living room.

Simon was on his knees, hastily shoving things back into her purse. "I'm so sorry, Cecy, I knocked it over." He carefully zipped the bag shut and handed it to her.

"No problem," she said soothingly, as the doorbell buzzed. "Is that the taxi already?"

"Probably. They said they had one in the area."

He wanted to walk her downstairs, but she ordered him to bed and let herself out, locking the door behind her and returning the key to its crack.

The taxi ride back to the manor was long, dark, and cold. When she arrived, Pennyworth was waiting for her at the door. "You've had a rather urgent telephone message, madam. A Mrs. Teresa Wakefield. She said you would know the number."

Cecilia grimaced. "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth." She hurried upstairs. _I suppose I should call her. If she managed to get the house number, who knows what she'll do next_. Shut in her room, she opened her purse to pull out her cell phone. It wasn't there. She dumped everything out, just to be sure, but the phone was definitely missing. "Maldición," she muttered furiously. _It must have fallen out when Simon dropped my bag._ Resignedly, she hurried back downstairs and asked for her car to be brought around.

Forty minutes later, she was again at the front of Simon's apartment building. Parking the car on the curb and hoping it would still be there by the time she returned, she ran up to the front door and buzzed Simon's bell. When three minutes of standing in the cold produced no answer, she gave up and punched in the door code herself. Up on the third floor, hard knocking produced an equal lack of response. _I hope he's asleep_, she thought. _If he's gone out again, I'll call his mother myself._ The key was right where she left it.

Stepping into the darkness, the first thing that hit her was the smell. Overwhelmingly putrid, it was laced with a scent that was dark and metallic and all too familiar. And she knew, even before she fumbled for the light and saw his body sprawled on the floor, that Simon was dead.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Life is good. I have a new car (new to me, at least), a summer job, a life…What? Dog sitting doesn't count as a life? Ah well, two out of three isn't bad.

Responses to reviews for the last chapter will be up by the end of tonight and can be founding by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.


	28. Huh?

**A/N** I know, I know…It's short. It hasn't been beta-ed (my fault, I missed my deadline). It might not even make a whole lot of sense. (I think it does, but I'm not trusting my judgment right now.) Let's just say that between writer's block, getting settled into my new job, and a series of manifestly Unfortunate Events which took place this evening (And If ANYONE can explain to me why such a large number of otherwise intelligent Americans REFUSE to keep toilet plungers by ALL their toilets in case of emergency, I will be extremely grateful), you're lucky to get a comma splice, much less an entire, if anemic, chapter.

**DISCLAIMER **GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE! Plus, dogs are gross. They have an unpleasant odor and they make nasty sounds when they lick themselves.

**Acknowledgement** All those helpful government sites on illegal drugs :) I would also, at this time, like to express my appreciation for Bounty paper towels – the quilted heavy duty kind.

**Chapter 27**

_FOX: The nomex survival suit for advanced infantry. Kevlar bi-weave, reinforced joints…_

_BRUCE: Tear resistant?_

_FOX: This sucker'll stop a knife._

_BRUCE: Bulletproof?_

_FOX: Anything short of a direct hit with a large caliber slug._

_Adapted from Batman Begins: The Novelization_

_(Which, by the way, I did not find overly impressive. Novelists make good comic book writers, but comic book writers do not usually make good novelists.)_

She knelt beside Simon's body anyway, feeling for a pulse. His head was thrown awkwardly to the side, and she suspected his neck was broken, probably with the same convulsive jerk that had smashed his head against the corner of the coffee table. _Some kind of seizure_, she thought, with a clinical corner of her mind that remained detached and clear. Simon's face was frozen in a tight, twisted mask smeared with blood and vomit, teeth clenched, his eyes rolled back so that only the whites showed. Biting her lip against a sudden swell of nausea, she turned her head and saw an empty syringe, an evaporating pool of water, a trail of fine white powder. _Damn it_. She stood up and stumbled away, tripping over the leg of the table. _Damnitdamnitdamnit._

She stopped by the entrance to the hallway, her back firmly to the scene in the living room. In the light from the low watt bulb she could see the blood on her hands and coat. Automatically, she moved to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. The groaning pipes spat out a jet of reddish water, the same color as the liquid on her hands. _I should have guessed…those mood swings._ There was something white bobbing in the water that swirled around the sink. _Oh, Simon._ She picked up the toothpaste cap and automatically reached for the tube. She had the cap back on and was setting it on its shelf when she noticed five tiny glass bottles that had appeared in the cabinet. _Where did those come from?_ She picked one up and squinted at it. "Insulin?" she muttered out loud. "What did he need that for?" Still holding the bottle, she absently reached out a finger and pushed the door of the cabinet shut. Directly behind her, darkly reflected in the peeling mirror, stood the Batman.

"You," she hissed, spinning, forcing herself not to back up against the wall. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same thing. You seem to find yourself in all sorts of unpleasant situations."

"I'm a friend of the deceased," she muttered bitterly.

"A friend? Then of course you would know he has the insulin because he was diagnosed with type one diabetes a year ago."

"He was?" She still wasn't thinking with her usual clarity and the question escaped involuntarily. She bit her lip in consternation and then demanded, "How did you know that?"

"Maybe I was his friend, too."

She would sworn he was laughing at her. "Or maybe you're just a nosy bastard." Gritting her teeth, she plunged forward and pushed past him into the hall.

"By the way," he rasped after her, "insulin should be refrigerated."

She stopped, staring down at the bottle she still held in her hand. "I know."

"Then why were you putting it into the medicine cabinet?"

"I wasn't. I was taking it out."

"Really. How long have you been here?"

"I don't see that it's any business of yours," she snapped, walking toward the kitchen, carefully not looking toward the far half of the living room.

A regrettably familiar iron grip grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "When people are murdered in this city it is always my business."

"Murdered?" she repeated in disbelief. "He overdosed. Or didn't they teach you what that looks like in _bat_ school?"

"No one breaks their own neck like that." He shook her slightly. "How long have you been here?"

"Less than ten minutes," she replied absently, mind racing, finally throwing off the paralyzing shock that had seized it when she had flipped on the lights. "I found him like that."

His grip shifted to her wrist and he shoved up her sleeve, lifting her forearm to the light. "We weren't needle buddies," she said coldly as he repeated the process with her other arm, "if that's what you're looking for. Although," she said thoughtfully, "if he was murdered, then maybe he wasn't…"

"Oh he was," Batman interrupted. "All the signs of extended use are there."

The small bubble of sudden hope burst, and she jerked her arm away from his gloved hands and continued her march toward the kitchen. In the dark room, she leaned against a counter top and breathed deeply, trying to hold back the confusion and grief that threatened to overwhelm her. _I thought I knew you, Simon_. She shook her head and walked back to the doorway, hoping that the Bat would have disappeared as silently as he had come. He hadn't. He was standing over Simon's body, head bowed, motionless.

Cursing silently, she moved back and bumped against the phone that hung on the wall. _I should call the police_, she realized, surprised she hadn't thought of it sooner. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. There was no dial tone.

She silently hung up the phone and very slowly edged sideways so that she could not be seen from the other room. _I am trapped in an apartment with a dead man and a vigilante who has no good reason for being here. I will not panic._ She crossed to the window and peered out. The fire escape was on the other side of the building, and it was too far to jump. It looked like the front door was her only exit option.

Drawing her Beretta, she flipped off the safety, muffling the click beneath her sweater. Then, holding the gun so that it was concealed by the long sleeve of her coat, she walked calmly out of the kitchen and toward the door.

The Bat ignored her until her hand was resting on the doorknob. "Going somewhere?"

"I'm leaving," she said firmly and twisted the knob. The door was locked. She fumbled at the deadbolt, and it finally screeched back. She wondered how he had managed to slide it without her hearing.

"I wouldn't advise it."

"Are you going to stop me?" she asked frankly.

"Yes."

Without hesitation, she lifted her arm and fired. She managed two shots before he tackled her, the gun still recoiling in her hand as her head slammed against the wall and everything faded into flashes and a high humming noise.

When she could see properly again, she discovered that she was in the shower stall, her hands and ankles bound, and the Bat's glove wrapped viselike over her mouth. Before she could do more than wonder why she was in this detestable position, there was the sound of the front door opening, and footsteps walking into the apartment.

The next moment, a high, thin voice demanded, "What did you do?"

"I had to, Boss, he wasn't dead yet," the second voice, despite its gruffness, sounded nervous.

"You idiot, no one is going to think that was the result of a seizure." There was a short silence, and then the "boss" asked, "Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, what did you do with the bottles?"

"You said they were medicine, so I, uh, I put them in the bathroom."

"And you didn't notice that I pulled them out of a refrigerator when I gave them to you."

"I…uh…"

Whatever excuse the flunky was about to offer was drowned out in a burst of high laughter. At last the boss said breathlessly, "My dear Max, you really are too much. I thought henchmen like you only existed in the movies." He paused to control another bout of giggles. "But I suppose we should at least remedy that little error, and let some mysteries remain mysteries, hmmm?" A moment later, a beam of light shone through the shower curtain as the door was pushed open. There was the sound of someone fumbling in the medicine cabinet and then the light disappeared. Less than a minute later, the sound of the front door closing drifted back to them.

Cecilia was still trying to process what all this meant when the Bat gritted in her ear, "Stay here and keep quiet."

For once she had no inclination to disobey. (Not that she much choice about the staying put part.) The Bat apparently knew that because he slipped away as soon as he had spoken. She heard nothing from the front door, but as long minutes passed, she became convinced that she had been abandoned.

"Well this is just peachy," she muttered, slipping down the wall so that she could examine the binding on her ankles. It was nothing more than a slender piece of wire, but it was appallingly effective. She imagined herself sitting in the shower for days on end, drinking rusty water that dripped from the shower while Simon's body rotted away in the other room. Cecilia bit back a hysterical giggle and buried her face against her knees. Despite the evidence of her own eyes, she still struggled to accept the facts – not that Simon was dead but that he was a cocaine addict. She had known him only briefly five years ago, but she had always remembered him as a truly good man. Now she wondered how much of his life had become a lie. Because there were always lies. Lies about what you were doing, how you felt, where your money was going…

She leaned her head back against the wall and thought about how much she wanted to kill Carlos Morales.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** I'm sorry, guys, I have no idea when responses to reviews will be up. Possibly not until the weekend. Definitely not until then if the rest of the week goes anything like today. Hopefully, though, it was just Monday being Monday. You know how it is.

Leave me lots of reviews to wash away my Monday blues!


	29. About the name Drury

**A/N** I've received a few complaints about how Somerville-centric the last couple of chapters were. I can't say things are going to get immediately better, but if you can just hang in there for this chapter and the next, then I'll promise we'll get rid of her for a while.

A big thank you to my wonderful beta, IcyWaters, who works hard to improve _your_ reading experience.

**Disclaimer** _To the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb"_

I do not own Bat-bat-man

Bat-bat-man

Bat-bat-man.

I do not own Bat-bat-man

Or his groovy stuff.

**Acknowledgment** To the all the rickety pianos that I've ever played.

**Chapter 28**

_Most bad luck is the misfortune of not being an exception._

_- Mason Cooley_

When they talked about it later, Bruce and Alfred each tried to shoulder the blame. Alfred said he had been careless. Bruce argued that he should have taken better precautions. But in the end, they both agreed on what it really was…a run of very bad luck.

Hardly able to believe his luck, Batman was a swift, silent shadow behind the Joker and his companion. He followed Somerville almost on a whim, intrigued by her hasty exit from the Manor. Guessing her destination when they reached the building, he had forced entry through a kitchen window and watched her rather emotionless discovery of the body. He had accused her of being involved in Golding's death in order to observe her reaction: She had seemed genuinely upset, but with this woman, he wasn't about to take anything for granted. After she had shot him (and was _that_ ever going to hurt tomorrow), he had heard the two men at the front door and had hidden in the bathroom.

Now he was following them along some of the darker streets of Gotham, heading in the direction of the river. Before long, he could smell it, even in the freezing night air. That distinctive blend of rot and mold was the special trademark of the city's river; a river, urban legend said, where there was no need for a bucket because you could shovel it out in chunks.

The Joker and Max stopped right by the concrete embankment that served as a flood wall on this particular section. Batman remained a few paces back, hidden by the corner of an overflowing dumpster.

"Stay right there, for me, will you, Max?" the Joker asked sweetly, backing away and holding up his hands as if framing a picture. "I'm trying to envision something." He tilted his head back and forth, then nodded decidedly. "Yes, I think that's just right." His high voice carried clearly through the cold air. "You know, Max, I had another associate who made a mistake. Do you know what happened to him?"

Batman sprang from the shadows, knocking Max down as the Joker's bullet zinged past them. He took a moment to ensure that Max would not be getting back up and looked up just in time to see the Joker vaulting over the wall. There was no splash from the river below, but he caught a shadow of dark movement, halfway down. Fastening his grappling hook to the crumbling concrete, he followed.

There was a large, round grille set in the wall – indicating the opening of****a tunnel that led to emergency flood reservoirs that drained into the harbor. When pulled, the metal framework swung back silently and easily. Batman crouched at the mouth of the tunnel, listening. The tunnel was absolutely silent, except for the echo of the sluggish river below. Patiently, he waited. At last there was the faintest scraping noise ahead and to the right. Bent nearly double, Batman crept forward. There was an intersection, and down the tunnel to the right he could see the faintest patch of light in the ceiling. There was a thud, and a shadow blocked the light. Batman lunged forward, hurling a batarang. There was a moan of pain; he snatched at the shadow, and then he was falling, down another pipe that opened beneath his feet. He managed to catch himself when the pipe bent, and he clung to the side of the rough concrete, hearing soft laughter above him.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," the Joker said softly. "But we're not meant to meet face to face, my friend. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. In the meantime, here's something to remember me by."

Batman held his breath and lunged for the top of the pipe as he was surrounded by thick, choking smoke. When at last, gasping, he made it out of the pipe, the Joker was gone. So was Max, and Batman suspected the hapless henchman was now floating facedown in the river. He set out, rather hopelessly, to methodically search the area, and even ventured back into the flood tunnels, but there was no sign of where his adversary had gone.

But it was only after he made it back to his car (not the Tumbler), in the small hours of the morning, and found all four of his tires slashed, that he began to suspect it had been a spectacularly unsuccessful night.

Cecilia's hands, arms, and****ankles had gone completely numb by the time she decided that she had had enough of keeping quiet and staying put. Rocking forward onto her knees, she managed to fall out of the shower and roll onto the tiny bathroom floor. Fortunately, the Batman hadn't shut the bathroom door all the way. She caught the edge of the door in her teeth and managed to swing it wide enough to allow her to wiggle through. She squirmed her way down the hall, collapsing at the entrance to the living room, only a few feet from Simon. The headlights of a passing car momentarily crept around the edge of the window shade, setting a golden haze around his blond head.

_No saint_, she thought bitterly, and realized that was exactly what she had set him up to be. _And here I thought I'd given up idealism_. She shook her head against the carpet, impatient with her own philosophical speculation. _I'll sort this out later_. The phone on the table, besides being disconnected, was probably beyond her reach, but her cell phone should still be on the floor where Simon had knocked over her purse. She took a deep breath and resumed wriggling across the floor.

The phone was there, behind a back leg of the table. Scooting it out with her chin, she rolled onto her knees and used her teeth to position the phone against her left knee, nearly tipping over in the process. When she had regained her balance, she bent over and wedged her front teeth beneath the top flap of the phone. She had worked it open a fraction, when a loud, resonant ringing vibrated through her head and made her jump, sending the phone skidding away. Muttering, she repositioned the thing and again set to work with her teeth. It took eight rings before she persuaded it to flip open. "Hello?" she gasped, craning her neck to the side to place her ear against the receiver.

"I hope I didn't wake you," the voice on the other end said politely.

"Not at all. I'm just a little tied up at the moment," she responded, equally polite.

"This will be brief. I thought you would like to know that we followed the directions and found a package."

"Have you opened it?"

"No. Our legal counsel advised us to wait unless it became absolutely necessary."

"That shouldn't be a problem," she replied, losing her balance and falling over.

"Cecilia?" the confused voice demanded from the phone.

She inched her way back over to the phone. "Sorry. Like I said, I'm a little tied up."

There was a short silence, and then the voice demanded, "Literally?"

"Yes. Listen, could you call the pol…"

She broke off as an imperative pounding sounded on the door. "Gotham P.D.! Open the door!"

"Never mind. I'll talk to you later. You'd better hang up now."

"Are you all right?"

"Never better. Bye, Deek." Silence on the other end told her he'd hung up, and she called out, "I'm here, but I can't come to the door. I'm tied up."

"Are you alone, ma'am?" the police officer (she hoped) on the other side of the door bellowed.

"I think so."

The next moment, the door burst open, and two armed cops rushed in. They gave a startled glance at her and the body, then searched the apartment to confirm that no one else was there.

"Boy am I glad to see you," she muttered as one of them knelt next to her and untwisted the wire from her wrists.

"A neighbor reported gunshots. Is he…"

"No," interrupted his partner, who was kneeling by Simon. "He hasn't been shot."

"Gunshots? But those were a while ago, weren't they?" she asked. "I admit my conceptions of the time are a little fuzzy."

"About two hours ago, ma'am. It's now 1 a.m."

"Is that all?" she asked, sitting up and rubbing her wrists gingerly, as the cop undid the wire around her ankles. "I could have sworn it was later."

"No, ma'am. You were here when the shots were fired?"

"I fired them."

"_You_ fired them?"

"At the Batman. I'm not sure what he did with my gun," she replied absently, wondering if she was able to stand up. Every part of her hurt, which may have been why she missed the sudden wary look the cops exchanged.

"And…did the Batman tie you up?" asked the one who had rid her of the wires.

"Yes. I must have missed him, although I really don't understand how at that close range…"

Both the cops helped her to her feet, keeping a firm grip with either arm. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she sighed, "at least, no more than usual."

"Then, I think we're going to have to ask you to come down to the station with us. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Alfred unlocked the door of the study and slipped inside. Bruce was usually home by this time, and the butler was beginning to grow slightly anxious. Not enough to really be called "worry," but enough that he wanted to go down to the caverns so as to be as ready as possible should he be needed. Besides, he couldn't sleep.

Hitting the appropriate keys on the piano, he went through the concealed doorway and took the lift down to the foundations of the house. As soon as he stepped into the chilly interior of the caves, his phone began to vibrate. Relieved, he answered it and lifted it his ear. "Yes, sir?"

"Alfred, I need a lift."

It was nearly four a.m. before the police let Cecilia go. She spent a long time sitting in a hard plastic chair with a really bad cup of coffee, waiting for them to question her. And when they finally did get around to the interrogation, there was a curiously half-hearted air about it. She got the feeling that they weren't entirely certain what to do with her, but that they were extremely reluctant to just let her go. She had heard one officer whisper to another that they hadn't been able to reach the lieutenant. She decided that Gordon's specialty was all things Batman, and that the rest of the department was a bit lost when it came to dealing with the masked…whatever he was.

When she at last arrived at the Manor, a sleepy looking valet took her car and let her in through a side door. Apparently it was too late, even for the ubiquitous Pennyworth. She was****about to begin climbing the stairs when a beam of light from a cracked doorway just down the hall caught her attention. Wondering who else was up at this time of night, Cecilia walked toward it, realizing she didn't even know what was in the room.

The room proved to be a luxurious study, filled with dark mahogany bookcases, deep leather furniture, and****plush oriental carpets. There was even a highly polished grand piano standing in one corner. A small blond headed figure was curled up in a large chair, staring absently at a painting of water lilies that hung on the wall.

"Richard?" she asked curiously. "What are you doing up?"

He jumped slightly, turning to look at her. "I couldn't sleep."

She slipped through the door. "Is this Mr. Wayne's room?"

"Yeah, he says this is his private thinking room."

"Did you come here to think?"

The boy shrugged. "Not really."

He was obviously brooding about something. Cecilia walked over to the piano and perched on the bench. "Do you play any instruments?"

"Nope."

"Then it's high time you started to learn. Come on." She scooted over on the bench to make room in front of the high keys. Richard reluctantly dragged himself over and sat next to her.

"Do you play the piano?"

"I used to. I find that there are few things more relaxing than playing scales. Now you put your hand here." She placed his left pinky finger on the middle C. "And I'll start down here. Now watch how my middle finger crosses over my thumb." She demonstrated a C major scale. "You try."

Richard sighed but slowly began plunking the notes. When he crossed his middle finger over to the A, she winced. He took his hand off the keyboard. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. Did you hear the way the tone buzzed?" She reached out and hit the G and then the A again. "Do you hear it?"

He cocked his head. "Yeah, I think so."

"It means the piano string is vibrating against something it's not supposed to." She grimaced. "Almost as bad getting your teeth drilled. All right, keep going."

He did, but stopped on the next note. "Hey, this one does it too!"

She made another face. "Yes, it does. Maybe the wood got wet."

Without being prompted, Richard started back up the scales, listening carefully for the underlying buzz that seemed to annoy Miss Somerville so much. He found three more notes. An E and an F, she told him, and another A. "A,B," said Richard cheerfully, hitting them hard. "E, F, A."

In front of them, a section of the wall slid silently back. Cecilia looked at the gleaming bottles lit with a soft backlight, then looked down at the boy. His eyes were huge, and his face had gone absolutely white. "Don't look so alarmed, Richard." She stood and walked over to the hidden closet. "It appears we have discovered Mr. Wayne's private liquor supply. Probably a relic from the days of Prohibition." _'Thinking' room?_she thought wryly.

"Oh," said Richard, in a bright, relieved tone. "We better put it back. Bruce probably wouldn't like us messing with his stuff."

"Of course." She stepped back. "I wonder how you…" The wall silently slid back into place. "That answers that question."

"I think I'll go to bed now," Richard suggested, sliding off the piano bench. He stood at the door waiting for her to join him, then carefully shut it. "Are you going to bed now, too?"

"It is that time of night," she agreed, smothering a yawn. They walked up the stairs together, and on her landing she was aware that he stayed and watched until she entered her bedroom.

She wanted to go to bed, but something about the boy's expression when the secret panel had slid back bothered her. Most boys would be thrilled with a discovery like that, but Richard had looked frightened. And she might never have another chance to access the room.

Moving swiftly but quietly, she went back down stairs and entered the study. She hit the piano keys to reveal the closet, then walked over to examine the shelves of gleaming cut glass decanters. If it hadn't been for Richard's reaction, she wouldn't have given the display a second thought. With a man like Wayne, it would have been more surprising had he not had a stash like this. And she could see why the hidden panel would appeal to him. _Everything has to be a thrill_.

She tried to pick up one of the bottles, but grunted in surprise when she couldn't even budge it. It took both hands to lift the decanter, and even then she could feel the glass slowly slipping through her grip. The bottom of the thing was seriously weighted. She put it back on the shelf before she dropped it and bit her lip in concentration. _Why would you put that much weight in the bottom of a bottle? To keep it from tipping over…when the shelf swings open_. She stepped back so that she could watch the angle of the light playing over the polished shelves. _There._ A smudge of fingerprints on the far end of a middle shelf. She grasped the shelf and pulled, but nothing happened. Frowning, she tried pushing instead. There was a soft click, and the entire set of shelves swung outward. Behind it, there was a dark cage, a crude elevator.

She stood in momentary indecision, wishing she still had her gun. Then, with a slight shrug, she stepped forward into the cage. _Fools rush in…_ She pulled down the iron grille that blocked the front of the elevator and pulled the lever in the corner. Silently and smoothly, the elevator began to descend. _...where angels fear to tread._

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N**

**DUN DUN DUN DUUUHHHNNNNNNN….**

Good cliffhanger, huh?

The My Own Journal site is down, so I've PM'd responses for the last chapter. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm going to get responses for the chapter before that written, but please know that I appreciated each and every one of them VERY much.


	30. Their loss

**A/N** Well, I missed my beta deadline again this week. My summer activities are proving harder to juggle than I had anticipated. Plus, I made the mistake of starting to take myself too seriously, which generally dries up my creativity. If I may offer a bit of life-wisdom from my grandiose height of 21 years, it is that you should never, ever, EVER take yourself too seriously. You'll be a lot happier. I promise!

**Disclaimer** Blahblahblah blahblah blahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

**Acknowledgment** My thumbs, without which this story would never have been written.

**Chapter 29**

_I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day._

_Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_

The elevator stopped. Cecilia pulled up the grille and stepped forward. "Hello?" she tentatively called into the darkness. Her voice echoed back at her, indicating that she stood on the edge of a large, empty space. There was a dull roar off to one side, but other than that, absolute silence greeted her intrusion. In the faint light falling down the elevator shaft, she found a switch and pulled it. Brilliant light flooded around her, and she squinted in pain. When her eyes stopped tearing, she turned and was unable to suppress a gasp of surprise. Before her stretched an immense natural cavern, now lit as bright as day by floodlights suspended high on the rough walls. But even more intriguing than the immense stalactites that loomed menacingly over her head, was the evidence of occupation. A sort of island of civilization had been set up on the rock floor, including a desk with three humming computer monitors, a small refrigerator, and a tall metal cabinet that looked like it belonged in a locker room. The unnaturally smooth wall behind the desk was papered with a giant map. And not just any map, she realized as she walked closer, but the most detailed city map she had ever seen. Every back alley in Gotham had to be labeled on it.

Stopping in front of the desk, she ignored the computers for the moment and instead pulled open one of the deep file drawers. It was full of thick, color coded files, all of which seemed to be stuffed with news clippings. The first set was orange. She lifted out the front folder and found herself looking at story after story about the mysterious return of Gotham's wealthiest prodigal, Bruce Wayne. The smaller, middle section of the drawer was full of green folders that held clippings on the notorious Lieutenant Gordon. And the final set of black folders held all the media cared to say about Gotham's one and only Batman.

It was the cold that was making her hands shake, Cecilia decided, as she hastily shut the drawer and strode deeper into the cavern. A short ways beyond the first setup was a second that looked more like a workshop. She made a brief inspection of the naked wiring that ran up the cave wall and provided electricity for the power tools. Above her, there was a sudden whirring of wings, and she instinctively ducked as black shapes dropped from above the lights and passed over her head, flying toward a part of the cave she hadn't seen. After a moment's hesitation, she followed the bats and found a waterfall – the source of the constant background noise. Beyond the passage that led to the waterfall, there was a roundish cave that opened off the main cavern. Its walls were stacked high with identical wooden crates. Cecilia brushed aside the packing peanuts in the top of an open box and pulled out a black, dish-shaped object. There were four holes toward the bottom and a cone on one side. Turning it over, she realized that the bowl would fit neatly over a person's head to place two of the holes for eyes and the cone for a nose. The other two holes were correctly positioned to allow the addition of horns. Or ears.

She set the cowl back in the crate, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't blame it on the cold anymore. She was trembling from sheer terror.

Bruce shifted the Tumbler into a lower gear as he drove through the concealed gate onto his property. He had left Alfred to deal with the un-drivable smaller car and at the moment wanted nothing more than to snatch a few hours of sleep and forget the frustration of the Joker slipping through his fingers. There was no reason he should have such a difficult time bringing down one man, but the criminal was as elusive now as he had been during his first appearance in Gotham last summer. _Bad luck_, Bruce thought, knowing Ra'as would have laughed that excuse to scorn.

He cut through the waterfall and brought the Tumbler to its usual bone-jarring halt. He lifted the roof, but for the moment was too tired to climb out or even remove his helmet. He rested his gauntleted hands on the steering wheel, bracing himself to rise, and that was when he saw the woman sitting at the desk in front of the computers.

He froze, and for the first time in over two years he was gripped with an uncontrollable panic that froze any ability to think. In imagination he saw the Manor burning again, collapsing in thunder and ash. Then he came back to himself – this was simply a situation to be dealt with. It could be no more personal than any other job.

She must have heard the car pull in, but she remained at the desk, industriously pecking at a keyboard. In four seconds he covered the space between them, pulled her out of her chair and down to where they were sheltered between the rock wall and the heavy desk.

"Who else is here?" he asked quietly twisting her arm at an angle calculated to provide maximum pain with minimum damage.

"No one," she grunted.

"Who have you called?"

"No one," she repeated. "Besides, the police have my phone."

"How did you get here?"

"You're hurting me," she complained. He twisted harder, felt the bone on the verge of snapping. "Luck," she gasped hurriedly. "And Richard."

_Dick?_

He released her and she slumped against the desk, cradling her arm. "He didn't mean to. We found the panel in the study by accident, and then he looked so scared I knew something was up. I understand now why you've resisted taking him to a psychologist."

He glared down, not certain he believed finding the panel was an accident, certain she had manipulated the child for her own ends. He thought she was probably telling the truth about being alone, but he was going to double check, and it would give him time to think. He pulled out the slender wire he found so useful and bound her wrists and ankles.

"Can we say dejá vu?" she asked dryly, but didn't resist.

When he had satisfied himself that the caves were secure, he returned to where she sat braced against a limestone outcrop. "What do you want?" he hissed.

She looked past him, rather than at him. "I don't understand what sort of insane game you're playing in this town, but I think we can help each other."

"I doubt that."

"You would be wise to hear me out."

"Don't threaten me, Miss Somerville."

"I wasn't. But you should think about who has the most to lose here…Mr. Wayne."

It was vain hope that made him laugh contemptuously. "That idiot."

"If I were you, I would despise him too, but don't waste time trying to confuse me. Too many things started making sense when I walked into this cave. I will admit that the visual illusion is remarkable. A little theatricality goes a long way. But you are Bruce Wayne. Or," she added thoughtfully, "Bruce Wayne is you."

"If that's true, do you think you'll ever walk out of this cave?"

"You can't afford to have me disappear," she said confidently. "You have a good cover, but it won't withstand concentrated scrutiny. And there is Richard to consider. Will you hear me out or not?"

"I've been listening," he snapped.

"Then kindly untie me. It's a little hard to put my cards on the table when my hands are falling asleep." She held up her wrists and he grudgingly undid the wire. She untied her own ankles and stood up, bracing herself against the rock. "Look, if you don't mind I'm going to sit down. It's been a long night, and this is going to take a while." Without waiting for a reply, she inched around to the desk chair and sat down.

"Explain," he ordered coldly. "And let's start with who you really are."

She didn't look at him as she started talking. "Technically I am employed by the Colombian government, but in reality I work for the American DEA."

"And why does the Drug Enforcement Agency need a social worker?"

"Let's just say that in college I got overambitious about the things I could do with my computer. You have a good security system down here, by the way, I couldn't get in. It's much better than the one upstairs."

He gritted his teeth against a fresh surge of anger and asked, "You were arrested for hacking?"

"I was lucky the DEA was looking for someone with my profile. The social work license is a convenient cover, and my mother was Colombian, so I had dual citizenship and could help them bypass some of the international interference policies. The Americans," she said straight-faced, "are strictly there to offer advice."

"Why did you come to Gotham?"

"Henry Judas asked to borrow me. He was aware of the, ah, career path I took after completing my internship here, and he needed someone to investigate Bruce Wayne and his young ward. I was temporarily out of field work anyway, so I said that I would. Actually, I'd been looking for an excuse to come back to Gotham."

"Why?"

"Because five years ago I figured out that Henry Judas was embezzling funds from his own charitable foundation. I couldn't do anything about it at the time, or I thought I couldn't."

"You hacked into his computer system," he guessed, "and got caught."

She laughed, but it sounded forced. "Guilty as charged. I didn't have Uncle Sam's permission back then."

"Did he realize what you had found?"

"I don't think so. But he made it very clear that it was only by his benevolent mercy that I wasn't prosecuted. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I told the truth."

"So you returned to fight for justice?" He couldn't keep the sarcastic edge off his tone.

"Something like that. But I had no idea how interesting things were going to get. Since coming to Gotham, I have been kidnapped twice by the man called the Joker. Last night, the Joker was involved in the murder of Simon Golding, a man who, like me, worked for Henry Judas. And there's another thing. During my second kidnapping, the Joker said something which led me to believe he is connected with Carlos Morales."

"Who?"

"You don't know the name?" she asked, turning to look at him for the first time since she'd begun her explanation.

"No."

"He was a Colombian drug lord. My last official operation with the DEA was an attempt to bring down his cartel. We learned enough to shut down his operations inside the country, but we waited because we were trying to trace his principle buyer in his country. But…things went bad, and Morales escaped."

"You think he's here in Gotham?"

"Yes. I don't have the resources for the kind of investigation required, but you seem to be involved already."

"What assurance do I have that you're telling me the truth?"

"You must have contacts that can confirm my involvement with the agency. Otherwise…" She shrugged delicately. "Let me put it this way: You can help me, and I can consider you an anonymous source, or you can refuse and become a part of my problem."

If she was telling the truth…

He couldn't read past her carefully brisk, detached manner. It was a shock to realize that the conversation they were having might not be half as earth-shaking to her as it was to him, and he hated her for it.

Somerville fixed her gaze on him determinedly. "If it's any consolation, I don't particularly care about you…either of you. I simply want to do what I came for and leave this God-forsaken city." Her voice dropped as she finished, and her eyes slid away from him. He stepped forward and saw her involuntarily, almost invisibly, flinch. He knew then, that she was lying. Her indifference masked fear. Of him.

The thought put some solidity back into the world.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Happy Fourth of July to all my fellow Americans! Responses to reviews will be up by Friday.


	31. Camel Mange

**A/N** As an apology for getting the last chapter out a day late, and in honor of Italy's World Cup victory this afternoon (more about that at the end of this chapter), Chapter 30 is up a day early! Let's blow the top off of four hundred reviews this time!

Thank you to my beta, IcyWaters, who works hard to bring you an error-free reading experience.

**Disclaimer** If I had to pick my three favorite movie stars at this moment, they would be Christian Bale, Colin Firth, and Denzel Washington. I don't own any of them, but the sun still came up this morning.

**Acknowledgment** To my courageous aunt, for taking us to the early morning day-after-Thanksgiving sales.

**Chapter 30**

_I'm the boss, you're an idiot. You're the boss, I'm an idiot._

_- Russian Army Saying_

Alfred listened quietly while Bruce calmly explained everything that had happened after he had returned to the caverns.

"And where is Miss Somerville now?"

"Sedated in one of the guest rooms on the third floor."

"Voluntarily?"

"Yes."

Alfred examined his employer carefully. Bruce sat behind his desk in the study, arms folded on the desktop, his expression calm and, despite the fact that he hadn't slept in almost twenty-four hours, alert. "You seem to be taking this rather well."

"You know, Alfred, in a way it's almost a relief. Ever since Somerville arrived I've felt like I've been in some sort of paralysis, teetering on the edge of disaster and unable to do anything about it. Now disaster has happened, and I can start doing something."

"I see, sir," Alfred said doubtfully.

"I want you to go to Washington. Use your connections in the old boys club to check on Somerville's story."

"I can do that over the phone, there's no need for me to actually go."

Bruce shook his head. "No, it's too easy for them to put you off. What we're asking for is pretty classified, and it calls for face to face schmoozing. I've already got a jet waiting for you. You'll be back by dinnertime."

"And who will look after Master Dick?"

"I will. With Somerville temporarily out of the picture, we can go back to our regular routine."

"Don't forget to feed him lunch. The takeout numbers are all by the kitchen phone."

"I can cook, Alfred."

"Of course, sir. Are you quite sure you'll be all right?"

Bruce raised his right hand. "I solemnly swear not to burn down the Manor while you are gone."

"I fail to find that amusing."

"Seriously, we'll be fine. You'll only be gone for the day, and Somerville is out of it. What could happen?"

The butler looked dour but nodded in acquiescence. "As you wish."

Once Alfred was safely on his way, Bruce glanced at his watch and saw with some amazement that it was nearly 8 a.m. _I guess I won't bother with the sleep thing_. He went upstairs to his ward's room. Dick was restless but still sleeping. Bruce mercilessly pulled off the covers and picked the boy up by his ankles. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

"Huh?" Dick blinked in sleepy confusion. "Bruce?"

"Yep."

"Why are you holding me upside down?"

"Because it's time to get up." Bruce dropped Dick back onto the bed. "Get dressed and be in the gym in five minutes."

"I thought we weren't practicing while Somerville was here?"

"She's sleeping in. Hurry up."

Working out had seemed like a good idea, until Bruce let his ward land a kick on his stomach. "Ooh," he grunted, faltering.

"Are you ok?" Dick asked anxiously.

"I think so," Bruce gasped, pulling up his shirt. The skin on his stomach was a single, enormous black bruise, thanks to the two bullets that had slammed against his armor last night. "Didn't realize that was so bad."

Dick stared in fascination. "What happened?"

"Ah…I ran into something. Listen, don't tell Alfred about this, ok? He'll just worry."

Dick shrugged. "Ok. Are we done?"

"Yeah, I think it's breakfast time."

"Alfred's usually telling us to take a shower by now."

"Alfred's not here. He had to fly to Washington on some business, but he'll be back tonight."

"Oh." Dick frowned. "Who's going to make us breakfast?"

"What, you think I can't open a box of cereal?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "Anyone can do that. Do you know how to make pancakes?"

Bruce shrugged. "Sure." _How hard can it be?_

When Dick entered the kitchen, pink and shining from his shower, Bruce was digging through the cupboards. "Do you know where Alfred keeps the pancake mix?"

"He doesn't use a mix. He puts in flour and milk and stuff."

"He would," Bruce muttered. "Ok, how about a cookbook?"

After he found the book and looked up the recipe, it took him twenty minutes to find the measuring cups and the baking powder and the right frying pan. "Are you sure you just don't want some Captain Crunch?" Bruce asked, looking dubiously from the lumpy bowl of batter to the hissing oil in the pan.

"No thank you," Dick said politely.

"Here goes." He spooned batter into the pan and watched as bubbles broke out across the white liquid. "Is it supposed to do that?" Before he could double check with the book, the phone rang. It was Fox.

"Mr. Wayne? I have some news about that matter we were discussing the other day."

Bruce set his spatula down. "I'm listening."

"One of our employees was murdered last night. A Simon Golding. Guess which department he worked in."

Bruce's eyebrows slowly rose. "Accounting?"

"You got it. We've only begun analyzing his files, but from the looks of things, Mr. Golding was Earle's right hand man when it came to fooling with numbers."

"Hey, Bruce?" Dick asked.

Bruce gestured for his ward to keep quiet. "Do you know where the money was coming from?"

"Not yet."

"Bruce!" Dick said urgently.

"I…" The shrill squeal of the smoke detector invaded the kitchen, and Bruce whirled to see smoke billowing out of the frying pan. Dropping the phone, he grabbed the pan handle and threw the whole thing into the sink.

"Mr. Wayne?" Fox was asking anxiously when he picked the phone back up.

"Sorry about that," Bruce shouted over the alarm, "I…Hold on, I've got a call on line two…This is Bruce Wayne."

"Mr. Wayne, this is the Gotham City fire department. Our system shows that you have a smoke detector going off?"

Bruce grabbed the cookbook and started waving the smoke away from the detector. "Oh yeah, there's no problem. We just burned some pancakes. There's no fire." Dick pulled a placemat off the table and climbed up on a chair to help fan away the smoke. The alarm stopped screaming.

"Are you quite sure?" the woman from the fire department demanded.

"Yeah, yeah. The alarm just shut off."

"We could send someone out to check…"

"Really, it's fine!" Bruce snapped. "Thanks for checking up on us." He switched back to line one. "Fox, I'm coming in." He glanced at the still smoking mess in the sink. "And could you order breakfast? With pancakes."

- - - - - -

Jim Gordon was just finishing his own pancakes when the doorbell rang. He was officially taking a day off: His beeper and phone were both shut off, he had warned the people at the precinct not to contact him even if the city was burning down, and he had promised both Barbaras that he was going to take them to Gladelands Holly Days sale.

His wife went to answer the door, and a moment later the sounds of an argument drifted down the hall to the kitchen. Gordon stuck his plate in the sink and went to see what the problem was. Barbara was standing squarely in the doorway, staring defiantly up at one his officers.

"I'm very sorry, sergeant, but James isn't working today. You'll have to find someone else to deal with your problem."

Sergeant Fiskers saw Gordon enter the hallway, and relief broke over his face. "Hello, Lieutenant, I'm real sorry to bother you, but Audrey Williams called in saying she had some information about her father's murder, and she won't talk to anyone but you."

_Why today?_ Gordon thought, even though he knew that today was really no different from any other day. Barbara had turned around and was scowling at _him_ now.

"Jim, you promised!"

"I know, honey, but…it's a murder investigation."

"Isn't it always?" she muttered, and stormed past him. A moment later the bedroom door slammed.

"I'll get my coat," Gordon sighed, then remembered that it was in the bedroom. "Never mind, let's go."

The Williams' mansion was lavishly decorated with evergreen branches and twinkling lights, but the dead silence inside the building didn't match the appearance of Christmas cheer. A uniformed maid silently led Gordon and Fiskers to a small sitting room, where both Audrey and her mother were waiting. Both women were clad in fashionable black, and both looked pale and had dark rings beneath their eyes.

"Lieutenant Gordon, thank you so much for coming," Audrey said, standing and looking questioningly at the two men.

"This is Sergeant Fiskers. He's very trustworthy."

Mrs. Williams remained silent, her back ramrod straight and her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Gordon got the impression that calling him hadn't been _her_ idea.

"Look, before we tell you what we found, there's one condition." Audrey clasped her hands nervously and stole a glance at her mother. Mrs. Williams remained immobile, staring frostily at some point over Gordon's right shoulder. "We want this kept out of the papers. My father is dead and…there's no need to slander his name."

"We'll do our best, Miss Williams, but I can't promise anything. These things usually get out, sooner or later."

She looked again at her mother. "I know. I guess we can't ask any more than that." She took a deep breath and said, "If you'll come with me, then, I have something to show you." Audrey led the way down the hall and up a flight of stairs to a room that was clearly a man's study. "This is…was…my father's office. My mother…I…we found this."

_Your mother knew about it and you pried it out of her_, Gordon mentally translated. Audrey knelt in a corner of the room and pushed on the paneling. A small section of wood slid away to reveal a small safe with a keypad entry. She punched in a series of numbers and the door to the safe opened. Inside sat a short stack of computer disks. Audrey handed them to Gordon and said, "My…we think there may have been another set of these, in another safe, but they're not there anymore."

Gordon handed the disks to Fiskers, who had large coat pockets, and asked, "What's your security like here?"

"We have a good alarm system."

_Obviously not good enough_. "I'm going to put a police watch on your house, Miss Williams. If the people who killed your father suspect that you're trying to help us, they may try to come after you."

"And do you think your pathetic little gesture will stop them?" a shrill voice demanded behind him.

Gordon spun, surprised. He hadn't heard Mrs. Williams enter the room. "I wish I could do more, ma'am, but…"

She ignored him. "I told you," she hissed at her daughter, "that calling the police was stupid. They'll find out, and they'll kill us both!" Her voice rose to a hysterical shriek. "Do you want me dead, as well as your father?"

Audrey, if possible, was even paler than before, but she stared defiantly back at her mother. "I want the men who did this to daddy punished!"

Mrs. Williams's hysteria abruptly disappeared. "Silly girl," she crooned, shaking her head back and forth. "Silly, silly girl."

Gordon began to suspect that the shock of Charles Williams's death had been more than his wife's mind could handle. "I understand that this has all been very upsetting," he said soothingly, placing a gentle hand under her arm and guiding her toward a deep leather sofa. "Why don't you lie down for a little, until you feel better?"

"Yes, perhaps I'd better." She allowed him to lead her to the couch, but she refused to lie down. She perched on the very edge of the cushions, her hands relentlessly pleating the fabric of her skirt. "I mustn't go to sleep," she told Gordon seriously. "Someone has to keep watch."

He pulled Audrey aside and asked, "Can you get her a doctor?"

"Yes, I'll call. She's been like this ever since I got her to tell me where the disks were."

"Listen, I want you and your mother to check into a hotel for a little while, ok? Go somewhere where they won't know you, and use an assumed name. Call me before you go and we'll have it checked out for security."

"You think that mother is right? That these people will try to kill us?"

"I don't know," Gordon said honestly, "but better safe than sorry."

When he and Fiskers left, the sergeant offered, "I can take the disks down to the station and start looking at them, if you wanted to, uh, finish your day off."

"Yeah, I guess I'd better," Gordon agreed, a bit reluctantly. He was intensely interested in the content of the disks, but maybe showing up at the Holly Days sale would cool the hot water he was currently in.

But when he arrived at Gladelands, he wondered how he could have believed he would be able to find his wife and daughter in this mess. A massive crowd, predominantly female, coursed through the aisles of the enormous store, like a raging river gone amok. Gray haired ladies used the sharp corners of their shopping baskets to forge a ruthless path, and here and there, helpless sales associates hung onto displays like drowning men clinging to life preservers. Gordon narrowly avoided being run down by a mother who apparently felt no compunction over using her two-year-old as a battering ram, and fell against an information counter.

"You ok?" a sympathetic clerk asked from behind the security of his tall counter.

"Yeah." Gordon straightened. "I'm supposed to be meeting my wife. Is there any chance you could page her?"

The man shrugged. "Sure, what's her name?"

"Barbara Gordon."

The helpful clerk picked up the intercom receiver. "Attention all customers. Would Barbara Gordon please come to the main information desk."

Five minutes later, there was disturbance in the current of shoppers, and Gordon's white-faced wife hurtled toward the desk, a terrified Babs in tow. She skidded to a stop in front of Gordon and stared at him in disbelief. "You're here!"

"Yeah, it didn't take too long, so I thought…"

"You're not hurt?" Barbara demanded.

"No," he replied, confused.

"I," said Barbara furiously, "dropped a whole basket full of jeans that were seventy-five percent off because I thought you'd been shot! Don't you ever, EVER do that again!" And then she slapped him.

"You show him, girlfriend!" a voice shouted from the crowd that had suddenly gathered around them.

Gordon winced. _Happy Holly Days._

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Yes, it's true! Italy is the football champion of the world! Of course, the really important thing about this is that France lost. FRANCE LOST! Not that they didn't deserve it after that truly vicious foul they pulled in overtime. It warms my little heart to think of the tears my French friends will be shedding tonight… And can I just say that Italian goalie Buffon is THE MAN. Totally terrific save in the second half.

As most of you will have noticed, I PM'd the responses to reviews for the last chapter. This happened mainly because I got confused about which set of reviews I was supposed to be catching up on, but I guess the important thing is that you have all been properly responded to, on time for once!

Feel free to mention your top three favorite movie actors (or actresses) in your review. I'm curious to see who (aside from the exquisite Christian) will pop up.


	32. Is Fairly Nasty

**A/N** WOOT! 412 reviews! Thank you, thank you to everyone who wrote after the last chapter! I think we might hit 500 by the end! huggles self

Thanks to my beta, IcyWaters, who made some really excellent suggestions for this chapter. Bet you can't tell which bits are hers :)

**Disclaimer** Choose any previous.

**Acknowledgment** Every Christmas romance novel I've ever read.

**Chapter 31**

_I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus_

_Underneath the mistletoe last night…_

_ - T. Connor_

Rachel hung up the phone for the first time in two hours and realized that she had once again forgotten to eat lunch. She hopefully poked through her desk drawers, but she'd eaten the last of her emergency rations last night. It would have to be the break room vending machine. Sighing, she began digging in her purse for change.

"Miss Dawes?" her receptionist's voice buzzed over the intercom. "Dick Grayson is on line two."

Rachel abandoned her purse and picked up the phone. "Hello, Dick."

"Hi, Rachel!"

"What's up?"

He sighed breathily. "I'm bored. Bruce has been in a meeting all day, and I'm stuck here."

"At Wayne tower?"

"Yeah. Can I come visit you?" he asked hopefully.

Rachel glanced at her watch and decided she could spare an hour. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"No, we had a late breakfast because Alfred's on a trip and Bruce burned the pancakes."

Rachel laughed. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. I haven't eaten either, so why don't I come over there and we can have lunch together?"

"All right!" Dick exclaimed. "Can we get hotdogs at the food court?"

Rachel shuddered. "Whatever you want."

Fifteen minutes later she had left her car in the Tower parking garage, collected Dick from Lucius Fox's receptionist, and was walking briskly through the skyways to the large food court that serviced Wayne Tower and several other large office complexes.

"I wish we had something like this near my office," she said, sniffing appreciatively at the mingled smells of pizza and gyros that drifted past them. "I get tired of peanut M&Ms out of the machine." She helped Dick buy his hotdog from the A&W stand, then left him waiting for his order while she went two restaurants over for a chicken parmesan salad.

The food court was nearly deserted, but as she stood waiting for her food and keeping a wary eye on her young charge, two women drifted over to stand in line behind her.

"I can't believe the meeting was cancelled again!" one of them complained. Rachel raised an eyebrow at the woman's attire. She was dressed in a short gray suit skirt that was about two sizes too small for her generous hips. _How does she sit down in that?_

"What happened this time?" her friend, a peroxide blonde, asked sympathetically.

"Cornell and half the board have been closeted all morning with Fox and the big boy himself."

"Bruce Wayne is in the building?" the blond demanded, a note of excitement creeping into her voice.

"Oh yeah, they always include him in big board meetings. I've heard he spends half his time sleeping and the other half flirting with the stenographer."

The blond sighed wistfully. "I knew I should never have let my mother talk me out of secretary school. 'Go into computers,' she said, 'that's where the money is.' But if she'd seen the way Bruce Wayne throws money at his dates, she might have thought twice."

"But he doesn't date secretaries," tight skirt protested. "Just those models who look like they've been flattened out like pie crust."

"He does too! You know Brenda Jordan who does data entry down on one of the sublevels? He took her to some high society party – just swooped down there one day and asked if she'd like to go out for the evening. And you should have _seen_ the bracelet she was wearing the next day."

"But she looks like a model – long straight hair, long straight body."

The blond tossed her head. "He should try dating a real woman for a change. He might find he likes it."

"Yeah," her friend agreed, "like me. I wouldn't mind a chance to catch some of that cash he's always tossing around."

The blond sighed again. "Who needs money when you've got a face like his?"

"Who needs a face when you've got money?" her friend retorted, and they both dissolved into giggles.

Grinding her teeth, Rachel snatched up her food that had _finally _come and stalked away. She wanted nothing more than to tell those two women exactly what she thought of them for talking about Bruce like…like…a mouse they could trap with the right bait, but she didn't want to make a scene in front of Dick. _Leeches_, she thought furiously as she stormed toward the exit. _Slimy, bloodsucking, disease-ridden leeches._

"Hey, Rachel," Dick panted, jogging to keep up. "Aren't we going to eat here?"

_Down here in the barn with the cows?_ "No," she said brightly, "I thought we could go to that nice lunchroom." Technically it was an executive lounge, for those in the Tower who made a minimum of six figures, and it would certainly be free of _vampires. Undead, fanged, lascivious…_

The lounge was decorated for the season with holly branches, bright red bows, and a Christmas tree in one corner. Rachel and Dick settled themselves at a glass topped table with a trumpeting angel for a centerpiece. The only other people in the lounge were three Armani-clad men talking in low, serious tones over their cappuccinos.

Dick had demolished his hotdog and fries, and Rachel had calmed down enough to eat most of her salad, when a buzz of voices in the hallway heralded new arrivals.

Dick waved a greasy hand as a trio of newcomers walked through the doorway. "Hello, Bruce, hello, Mr. Fox, hello, Mrs. Gladys."

"Hello, yourself." Bruce walked over to the table. "What did you have for lunch?"

Rachel pushed back her chair and stood. "Mr. Fox, it's nice to see you."

"It's always a pleasure, Counselor Dawes. May I introduce you to my invaluable assistant, Mrs. Gladys Trotsky?"

Rachel smiled at the older woman. "We met earlier."

Gladys nodded. "Thank you so much for taking Dick to lunch. He was going a bit stir crazy in my office."

"It was completely my pleasure," Rachel assured her, then glanced at her watch. "But I'm afraid my lunch break is over."

"No rest for the wicked or those who prosecute them," Fox said with a laugh.

Rachel turned to reach for her coat and found Bruce holding it for her. She thanked him and slid her arms into its silky lining.

"Don't thank me too quickly. I may have an ulterior motive," he said mischievously.

She turned to look at him, puzzled, and caught sight of Gladys pointing a finger at the ceiling. Rachel lifted her eyes, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the light fixture. _Surely he wouldn't…_

Before her thought could progress any further, Bruce wrapped an arm around her shoulders and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. It wasn't a long kiss; in fact, it was over before she could properly register what was happening, but nonetheless, Rachel's face, particularly her mouth, felt like it was flaming. She was acutely aware of Gladys and Fox's laughter, Richard's curious stare, and****the amused looks of the three men across the room. She couldn't quite bring herself to look Bruce in the face.

"You were right," she said, with an attempt at flippancy. "I'll take back the thank you. Goodbye, everybody." Trying not to walk too fast, she headed for the door and breathed a sigh of relief as she exited into the deserted hallway.

_It didn't mean anything_, she told herself firmly as she strode toward the elevators. _There were witnesses. Bruce Wayne, the playboy, would never pass up a chance like that_. But despite her logical argument, she couldn't seem to stop her heart from beating in a funny, skip-beat way.

She was almost to the parking garage when she heard rapid footsteps behind her, and a voice called, "Rachel, wait!"

She reluctantly stopped and waited for Bruce to run up beside her. "Rachel," he said, looking down at her, his breathing not at all bothered by the running. "Rachel," he repeated, "don't be mad." His expression was part pleading, part guilt, and****all sincerity, underlined by something she wanted to call innocence. It was the same expression that, years ago, had made her adore him.

"I'm not mad," she said softly.

"Good," he whispered.

There was a long moment in which she wanted to turn away and couldn't. Then he pulled her close and kissed her. The kiss beneath the mistletoe had been brief, light, almost detached. This was much more personal. Helpless, her eyes fluttered closed, and she felt herself melting against him, yielding to the pressure of his mouth. They teetered on the brink of an intensity that both frightened and exhilarated her, and then he pulled away. She kept her eyes shut, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but when she at last opened them, he was gone.

_Coward_, she thought, not sure whether she meant him for leaving or herself for being glad she didn't have to face him. _Don't be mad, Rachel_. And she wasn't, she thought miserably as she all but ran for her car. Not even a little bit.

- - - - - -

Bruce scooped a few grains of rice out of the pot and blew to cool****them before tasting. _Perfect_. Pancakes – and other American dishes – might be beyond him, but rice he could do. The phone rang, and he made sure to pull the pot off the heat before answering – no need to repeat the morning's unpleasant episode. "Hello?"

"Hello, Master Wayne."

"Alfred, I expected you home by now."

"I'm afraid we've been grounded by a snowstorm."

"Really? The weather here's been great."

"Did Master Dick get his lunch?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Yes, he got lunch. And I just finished making dinner."

"What happened to the chef?" Alfred demanded.

"I gave him the night off."

"Master Wayne, you know how it upsets him to have his schedule suddenly rearranged."

"He didn't seem upset to me. I think he likes me."

"I understand he suffered from a high fever when a child."

"Ha, ha. How did things go?"

"Quite well," Alfred said cautiously. "As far as I can discover, things are just as we were told. I'm faxing over some information you should find interesting."

"All right," Bruce said slowly. So Somerville was (probably) telling the truth. That was interesting.

"What else?" Alfred asked abruptly.

"What else what?"

"What else are you making for dinner, besides rice, that is?"

"How did you know I was making rice?" Bruce knew Alfred was abnormally attuned to goings on at the Manor, but now he began to suspect witchcraft. Or cameras with satellite feed connected to the butler's wristwatch.

"I'm fully aware of the reach of your culinary skills, sir."

"Oh. Applesauce and chocolate milk. Have a nice flight, Alfred, bye." He hung up before the butler could express an opinion on the somewhat unorthodox menu. Besides, it did include three of the four major food groups.

- - - - - -

"You rang?"

Gordon was too depressed to feel proud of himself for not jumping. "There's been a break in the Williams case. We think we at least know why, if not who." He explained about Audrey and her father's safe. "The disks held what we think are shipping schedules, going back over ten years. They listed cities all over the world, but with a majority in South America. The ports are all places in which the Gladelands Corporation has legitimate business, but …

"You think drugs?"

"I think cocaine. The last date entered was about five months ago, shipping from Rio de Janeiro."

The Bat hissed. "Morales."

"What?'

"Carlos Morales, until recently of Bogotá, Colombia. Four months ago, he was busted as the head of one of the largest cartels in the country. He got away, but the Colombian government took down his operation. Crazy as it sounds, they think he was sending everything to one buyer."

Gordon gave a low whistle. "That would explain some things."

"See if you can trace any kind of a link between Morales and Williams."

"First thing in the morning," Gordon promised. "So you think Williams was the one controlling the drug flow in Gotham?"

"No."

"Why not? He's the best candidate we've had so far."

"Because he's dead. Whoever had him killed is the one controlling the money, which we haven't found. I doubt he was even in charge of in-city distribution."

"It's a lot of evidence to hide," Gordon agreed.

The Bat sounded thoughtful. "There's something else you should try. See if you can find a link between Williams and a Mr. Earle, lately of Wayne Enterprises."

- - - - - -

Gordon pulled off his shoes and tiptoed down the hall, trying to avoid the creaky spots. But when he eased open the bedroom door, he found that his caution had been unnecessary. Barbara was sitting on the window seat, her knees hugged to her chest. Gordon sighed and shut the door."Barbara…I'm really sorry about today."

"So am I," she responded. Her voice was husky and he knew she had been crying. "I didn't mean to get so mad, Jimmy. I was just so scared…"

He walked over and knelt next to her. "I should have thought. I didn't realize…" They'd been married for fifteen years, and he'd been a cop for all of them, but Barbara had never reacted like this before.

"I never know anymore what's happening to you," she whispered. "I never know where you are or when you'll come home. When you leave in the morning, will I see you again in eight hours or two days?**** At least before, you worked your shifts and came home. I know Flass was scum, but when you were with him, I felt safe about you. He knew the right people." Her voice broke and she buried her face in her knees.

Gordon gently patted her shoulder, but inside he felt stirrings of anger. What did she expect him to do, apologize for finally acting in a way that made him feel worthwhile? That gave meaning to getting up in the morning?

At last her sobs subsided. Gordon pulled a box of tissues off her nightstand and handed them to her. Barbara blew her nose violently before muttering, "You should go to bed. They'll probably want you bright and early at the station."

"All right," he agreed, without protest. He could think of nothing else to do.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Well, gang, aside from Christian, we're a pretty scattered bunch when it comes to taste in actors. 11 people gave their top three. Of those, 4 mentioned Johnny Depp. Hugh Jackman was close behind with 3. And Josh Holloway, Cillian Murphy, and Hugh Laurie got 2 each. That means twenty different names were mentioned, yet here we all are, in the same fanfic forum. Isn't life, and the Internet in particular, peculiar?

Responses to reviews for the last chapter can, for the first time in some time, be found on my homepage.


	33. I Hate Dialup

**A/N** Yay! Three beta'd chapters in a row!

As most of you have probably figured out, this story is not going to be finished by August 1. Sigh. But it WILL be finished! If it's the last thing I ever do!

Thank you to my beta, IcyWaters, who has a nice eye for subtleties.

**Disclaimer** My mother was named after an actress. I wasn't named after anyone. So far as we know, neither was Bruce Wayne.

**Chapter 32**

_Let sleeping dragons lie._

_- Colloquial Proverb_

In the old days, it wasn't a stupid crook who committed a crime two blocks away from the police station. After all, the building itself was all but the Mecca of the city's crime and corruption. But half a year and one giant bat later, things were different. Now, the chance of an encounter with an officer on the right side of the law had moved from unlikely to probable.****But it was something a lot worse than a good cop that dropped on the head of the unsuspecting stick-up man.

He had his gun leveled on a young couple who had been (stupidly) necking in the entrance of an alleyway. He could tell from their clothes that they were from a slightly more upscale part of town and probably had a good collection of credit cards. "I want the purse and the wallet," he hissed. "Now!"

As the woman's trembling hand unhooked her purse strap, the dim light from the street caused her ring finger to glint. The thief gestured with his gun. "I want jewelry, too," he snarled. That was when a smothering piece of the night detached itself from the sky and dropped onto his head.

His gun was wrenched from his hand, and his head bounced off the wall. Blinking his eyes dazedly, he saw his victims, horrified looks on their faces, turn and race from the alley. Then a black elbow was nailing his chest to the wall, and the devil was glaring down at him. The cold metal of a gun was pressing against his cheek.

"Does this make you feel big, little man?" Batman hissed, giving the gun a fierce twist so that it dug into the thug's face.

The unlucky criminal felt a peculiar vibrating sensation against his heart. For a wild moment he thought he was literally being given a heart attack, and then the butt of his own gun crashed against his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Batman stared at the gun in his gauntleted hand. Its weight was oddly soothing, and he could imagine how easy it would be to pull the trigger and make sure the scum at his feet never hurt another woman… _What am I doing?_ With a sharp move he flung the gun away. It ricocheted off the alley wall, creating a shower of concrete shrapnel.

The gunman, the couple, the demand for jewelry – the whole scene had hit a little too close to home. The only thing missing was…

Batman brought an insistently vibrating wrist up to his mouth and demanded in a low voice, "What's wrong?"

"Bruce, are you coming home soon? There's a funny pounding coming from upstairs."

_Oops._ "Go back to bed, I'll be there soon."

"Can I watch TV?"

Batman rolled his eyes. "Sure."

"Thanks. Bye, Bruce."

Batman moved the thug to the mouth of the alley, then took off over the rooftops.

He didn't mind turning in early, he reflected as his car sped toward the outskirts of town. His sleepless night was beginning to catch up with him. But before he could go to bed, he was going to have to figure out what to do with Somerville. Considering the trauma she'd been through, he'd hoped that the sedative would knock her out for a full twenty-four hours, but apparently that wasn't going to be the case. And clearance from Washington or not, he was reluctant to once again give her the run of the house. The fact that she really did work for the government didn't mean that she was going to keep her mouth shut.

At home he found Dick in the TV room, his eyes glued to the giant flat screen as a fairy with red eyes and long yellow fingernails raised what was apparently a giant dripping tooth (it was hard to tell beneath the gore) to stab a sleeping child. "What…"

"Aaaah!" Dick yelled, jumping off the couch.

"What are you _watching_?" Bruce demanded, grabbing the remote and clicking off the screen.

Dick's terror faded into sheepishness. "Just a dumb movie."

"No more dumb movies at one in the morning," Bruce ordered. "Go get in bed."

"Ok. Did you find out what the pounding was?"

"I'm just about to go investigate."

"I could come with you!"

"Go to bed, Dick."

The boy sighed heavily. "Ok." He trudged slowly down the hall, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "We don't believe in the tooth fairy, right?"

Bruce repressed his own sigh. Was this what Alfred dealt with every night? "Right."

When Bruce began to climb the steps to the fourth floor, he heard the pounding his ward had described. Slow but regular, it grew louder as he approached the door of the spare bedroom where he had locked up Somerville. He turned the key and swung the door outward.

Somerville stood with the stand of a heavy brass lamp on her shoulder, poised for her next swing. From the looks of the marks on the inside of the door, she had been at it for some time. Bruce half expected her to try for his head, but she set down the lamp and brushed her hands off as if she had just finished some heavy task. "Ah, Mr. Wayne. I quite understand the security measures you've taken, but would you relent enough to point me in the direction of the nearest bathroom?"

Wordlessly, Bruce pointed down the hall.

"Thank you," she said politely, and took off with a controlled, but definitely brisk, pace.

Bruce felt an unexpected pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to come across like Gestapo guarding a plaza full of Jews. When she reappeared, he politely informed her that the mansion phone lines were now accessible only with a code, that the alarm system had been turned on to guard all exits, and that her laptop had been removed from her room.

"My I-Pod too, I suppose?"

"And your spare ammunition clips."

She shrugged. "Fair enough. But I am permitted to return to my room?"

"Yes." He followed her down as far as the third floor and went to check on Dick. The boy was obediently in bed, but his lights were on and he was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

"Hey, we don't believe in the tooth fairy, remember?" Bruce walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I wasn't thinking about that," Dick told him. "Did you take care of the pounding?"

"Yes. Miss Somerville got herself locked in a room. That's all."

"Last night, Miss Somerville…" Dick trailed off, still watching the ceiling.

Bruce waited patiently. He had held off questioning his ward about his encounter with Miss Somerville in the study. Dick usually owned up to things if given enough time.

"Last night I couldn't sleep, so I was waiting for you in your thinking room. Miss Somerville found me, and she was showing me how to play the piano, and a secret door in your wall came open."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. It shut and we went to bed."

_Well, one of you went to bed_.

"Are you mad?"

"No." _I'm not sure who's fault this is, kid, but it's not yours._ "I never told you not to go in there."

"You said not to bother you when you're in there," Dick recited.

"Right. But in the future, it's probably best if you stay out."

"Ok. Thanks for not being mad."

"No problem. Thanks for telling me what happened."

"No problem."

"Can you go to sleep now?"

"Yes." Dick closed his eyes, and Bruce turned out the lights and shut the door. A quick snack before bed sounded appealing, so he headed downstairs to the kitchen. Somerville was already there, scrambling eggs in a frying pan.

"Do you want this rice?" she asked as he opened the fridge.

"Nope," he said and watched as she dumped dinner's leftovers into the pan with her eggs. He turned back to the pitifully bare fridge and pulled out the applesauce. There wasn't much left, so he leaned against the counter and ate it straight out of the jar. Somerville sat at the breakfast bar and drowned her eggs and rice in salsa.

"Is that how they cook in Colombia?"

"It's how my mother used to cook. She hated the kitchen."

He supposed that Somerville must have had a mother, but it was hard to picture. For a while, the only sound was the clink of silverware on glass, and then she said flatly, "I want your file on the Joker."

Bruce thought about it and decided it was a reasonable request. "All right."

"Just leave it outside my door." She dumped her plate in the sink and crossed to the door. "Wayne?"

He was intent on scraping the last of the applesauce out of the jar. "Yeah?"

"I apologize for calling you a bastard." She waited until his startled gaze swung up to meet hers and smiled sweetly. "There's obviously no doubt as to your parentage."

He could think of a few remarks to make about her parentage, but restrained himself to muttering darkly at her retreating back. He waited until he was certain she was safely away, then slipped down the hall to his study and the caverns.

Bruce scanned the file on the Joker to make certain there was nothing he wanted to keep out of Somerville's hands and printed it off. After a moment's thought, he also printed his file on Andrew Williams and a copy of the information on Carlos Morales that Alfred had sent him. He dropped the whole stack outside Somerville's door, and with a vivid sense of relief went to bed.

He couldn't sleep. Images of the Joker, Earle, Bubbles, Somerville, and Dick kept swirling in random patterns through his mind, like puzzle pieces that belonged together but couldn't find their perfect fit. Frustrated, he forced himself to crawl out of bed and stretch, walk around the room, get a drink of water. When he climbed back between his sheets, he forced himself to think of something completely unrelated to the mystery.

_Rachel_. He thought about how much he had enjoyed kissing her. And then he thought about how much he wanted to do it again. And again, and again, and… He groaned in frustration and pulled a pillow over his face.

Whether it was weariness or partial asphyxiation, he fell asleep.

_He crouched on the edge of the rooftop, peering down at the gunman and helpless couple. He had to jump, was already falling, but something was wrong. Something was missing. He landed but the pavement gave way beneath him, and he fell through to another alley, empty and endless._

_Slowly, pushing because the air was thick and resistant, he turned. A slight, blond headed boy stood staring toward the unseeable end of the alley. "Dick?" he asked hesitantly, stepping forward, reaching out. But he could go no further. Around the boy, pearls tumbled in a silvery patter; a scarlet flood, rolling into darkness._

- - - - - -

Judas settled into his usual chair on the far side of the desk. "I hear that last night's operation was muffed?"

Gatsby shrugged in resignation. "Fortunately it doesn't matter.****The important thing is that Golding is implicated and through him, every important executive in Wayne Enterprises."

"I just don't want my part in the business coming out, that's all."

Gatsby smiled. "Well, that's going to depend on how well you did your job, isn't it? About the woman…"

"I haven't heard from her since the day before yesterday."

"But you're convinced she knows more than she's telling you."

Judas shrugged. "I think if it was there to find, she'll have found it by now. Besides, we're running out of time."

"Then we set the next part of the plan in motion. You know what to do."

Judas nodded. "I'll get the boy."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found by going to my bio and clicking on my homepage.


	34. Burn the Witch!

**A/N** Happy early birthday to me! Alas, my goal of having this story finished by my birthday has not come to pass. On the bright side, my dad and I are going to check out a new Vietnamese restaurant in honor of the day!

Thank you to my beta, IcyWaters, who is so good at eliminating my silly mistakes. Wish she could have checked my math tests in high school!

**Disclaimer** Slander! I never said I owned any of it! Get back, you! waves toasting fork at DC Comics hitmen

**Chapter 33**

_Trust not the horse, O Trojans. Be it what it may, I fear the Grecians even when they offer gifts._

_-The Aeneid_

The phone began to ring just as Alfred walked through the door of Wayne Manor. Hastily tugging off his gloves, he picked up the receiver and was momentarily nonplused when a computer generated voice asked him to enter the security code. _Ah, Miss Somerville._ He punched the numbers and said, "Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth speaking."

"Alfred," Lucius Fox's voice was filled with relief. "You're back. This is the third time I've called."

"I only just returned."

"Get Wayne down here ASAP. An emergency board meeting has been called to discuss the results of the investigation into Simon Golding."

Alfred had no idea what Lucius was referring to, but he didn't waste time with questions. Hanging up the phone, he hurried upstairs and into the darkness of the master bedroom. He couldn't deny a sense of relief when he saw Bruce safely huddled beneath the covers. Not that there was much the butler could do if something did happen to Batman during one of his nighttime ramblings, but Alfred could never sleep soundly until he was personally sure the master of the house was safely home.

Pushing aside his reflections, Alfred drew back the curtains to let what light there was into the room. "Master Wayne, Lucius Fox just called."

There was a faint groan from the bed.

"There's been an emergency board meeting called. Something about a Simon Golding."

Bruce sat up, rubbing a hand over his sleep bleared eyes. "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty, sir."

Bruce muttered in what sounded like Chinese, pushed himself out of bed, and stumbled into the bathroom. Alfred pulled out a shirt and suit, then called the garage to have one of the cars sent around. Twenty minutes later, a still yawning Bruce was speeding away toward downtown, and Alfred at last approached the kitchen, wondering how much damage had been done in his absence.

To his surprise, the counters were clean, the drain rack was full of clean dishes, and there was coffee percolating in the machine. Miss Somerville was sitting at the breakfast bar, with a mug of coffee and a disarranged chess board.

"Good morning, Miss Somerville."

"Good morning, Mr. Pennyworth. Have you just arrived from somewhere?" she asked, curiously examining the suit he wore which, in some indefinable way, said "business," the same way the one he usually wore shouted, "butler."

"I spent yesterday in Washington."

"My fault?" she asked with a faint smile.

"It's always a pleasure to catch up with old friends." He tied an apron over his suit and washed his hands. "I meant to return last night, but we were grounded by snow."

"Beastly stuff." She returned her attention to the chess board.

Alfred cracked half a dozen eggs into his pan and before they had finished scrambling, Dick wandered into the kitchen. "Alfred, you're back!"

"So I am. Orange juice or milk?"

"Juice, please." Alfred poured and Dick took the brimming glass to the breakfast bar and climbed up beside Somerville. "Are you the white or the black?" he asked.

"Both," she responded absently. "And neither." She shifted the position of a black knight.

"You can't move him like that!" Dick protested. "It's against the rules."

"People don't always play by the rules, Richard."

"I do. Otherwise it's cheating."

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "And you never cheat?"

"No!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"What about lies? Do you ever tell lies?"

"Only if it's important," he said, suddenly looking anxious.

"What's important enough to lie about?"

Whatever answer the boy was about to make was cut off when Alfred set a bowl of steaming eggs on the counter. "No more chess before breakfast," he said firmly and took the board away.

- - - - - -

Bruce sat in his "thinking room," frowning down at the ream of printouts in front of him. The morning's meeting had been short. Fox had simply wanted to apprise the board members of the situation – namely, that proof of money laundering within the company had been discovered, and that the evidence was beginning to point to several important people, including a few of those who sat around the conference table. Disbelief had been followed by outraged assertions of innocence.

Fox had assured them that he believed that much of the information uncovered was fraudulent – particularly since his own name was among those accused – and had asked anyone who might be able to shed any light on the matter to come forward. Bruce's name had not been on the list, probably because he had been missing for the last seven years. _Or maybe the framer thought Bruce Wayne was just too dumb to be involved in such a complex operation. It makes it more believable if the whole thing is going on beneath the oblivious owner's nose._

The auditor from the IRS had given them forty-eight hours to come up with an explanation before he started pressing charges. And if that happened… _Stockholder panic. Even with my majority shareholding, the entire company could collapse in a matter of weeks._

A knock on the door broke his dismal chain of thought. "Yes?" Somerville opened the door. "Miss Somerville, this really isn't a good time…"

"I'm very sorry to interrupt you," she said, not sounding sorry at all, "but I'd like to know how much longer you plan to keep me locked up. I have things to do."

"I'm certain you'll understand my position, Miss Somerville, when I tell you that I have no reason to trust your discretion."

"Did Mr. Pennyworth not receive adequate answers in Washington?"

"We've ascertained that you do, in fact, work for the DEA."

"But working for the government doesn't make me trustworthy. I entered your house under false pretenses, poked my nose into your dark secrets, and now I've got to…" She wiggled her index and middle fingers, miming quotation marks. "…earn your trust. Is that it?"

"In a nutshell."

She stared at him for a long moment, and he got the feeling that she was trying to decide something. At last she gave a small nod and said, "I told you that my only concerns were the arrests of Henry Judas and Carlos Morales. You should be interested in them too – Morales is linked to the Joker, who has been asking questions about your ward, and Judas is also very interested in the boy. I think I can tell you why."

"I'm listening," he said grimly.

"If you would let me have my laptop, I'd rather show you than tell you. It will be so much more effective."

Impatiently, Bruce strode over to the piano and opened the secret panel. Somerville sighed. "I might have known you'd have it stored in that nasty hole." She pulled back the shelf and preceded him into the elevator.

Down in the caverns, Bruce switched on the lights and led the way to the computers. He hadn't had time to do more with Somerville's laptop than plug it into a program that would reveal her passwords. The social worker sat in the chair and activated her screen. "What program do you use?" she asked curiously, when she saw that everything was open.

"It's not on the market."

"I should have guessed." She opened a file and a glowing line of symbols appeared on the screen. "This is a very simple decoding program. It works with basic substitution codes. Each one of these represents a letter in the alphabet." She tapped a key and a second line appeared.

NORTH TWENTY FIVE FORTY TWO FIFTEEN WEST EIGHTY ZERO FIVE TWENTY FOUR LEFT PILLAR TWO NORTH SIX FEET

"Coordinates?" Bruce asked.

"A hiding place. Each one of these symbols," she tapped the screen over the first line, "represents one of these." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the same tiny notebook Bruce had seen when he searched her purse. She flipped open to the pages full of hand drawn symbols. "Look familiar?"

Bruce shook his head.

Somerville looked rueful. "I didn't inherit much artistic talent. These are the birds on Richard's blanket."

It was so obvious. Bruce couldn't count the number of times that he had looked at that blanket, but it had never occurred to him that the robins dancing around the edge were anything more than whimsical embroidery. "How did you know?"

"Something the fortune teller repeated that Richard's mother used to say. About the blanket holding blessings for the future."

"And you think something is hidden there?"

"Something _was_ hidden there. This spot very conveniently happens to be near Miami, and my Boss personally oversaw the excavation."

"What did they find?"

"A rustproof metal box."

"What was inside?"

"I don't know; they haven't opened it. It doesn't exactly belong to us, but I wanted it out of there in case I wasn't the only one who'd been clever enough to decode the blanket."

"I want that box."

She smiled. "Give me the phone and I'll have it shipped out."

He shook his head. "I'll send a plane."

"And save them the shipping expense? How thoughtful. Their budget's a little smaller than yours."

Bruce grabbed the phone and switched it to one of the normal Manor lines. "Do it," he ordered.

She punched in her number. Bruce hit the speakerphone and listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. After three rings a male voice, made tinny by the phone's small speaker, questioned, "Hello?"

"Deek, it's Cecy."

"You haven't been answering your phone."

"The police have it."

"The police? What…no, I don't even want to know."

Somerville rolled her eyes. "Listen, Wayne's sending a plane for the Grayson box. We need to know what's inside."

"You told Wayne about the box?"

"He has resources that we need. Morales is here. I'm certain of it." She plunged into an explanation about Andrew Williams that proved she had not only read the file Bruce had given her but had also done some rather shrewd guessing.

When she had finished, the man on the other end said, "Get him, Cecilia."

"I will," she promised, looking down to where her right hand lay curled on the desktop. "Whatever it takes."

"Good." Deek sounded satisfied. "By the way, Terry's been calling here again."

"Screw Terry," she said abruptly. "I'd better go, this has been a long call. Bye, Deek." She hung up before he had a chance to reply. She looked up at Bruce. "Satisfied?"

"Who's Terry?" he demanded.

"A pest. Haven't you ever gotten tangled up with a woman who won't leave you alone?"

_First a mother and now a boyfriend?_ Frankly, Bruce couldn't imagine anyone actually pursuing Somerville. He supposed stranger things had happened, but he couldn't think of any.

"Can I go now?" she demanded. "I need to check in at the office, or Judas is going to be extremely suspicious."

She had a point. If Judas was after Dick's…whatever was in the box…then the last thing they needed was for him to suspect that Somerville was working against him. On the other hand, Bruce reminded himself, he didn't have the box yet.

Somerville looked imploringly toward the roof of the cavern. "What more do you want, Wayne? An oath signed in blood? The foreskins of a hundred Philistines?"

"What?"

"Twelve years of Sunday School." She sighed. "Look, I'll wear a wire. Will that make you happy?"

- - - - - -

Cecilia knocked lightly on the door of Judas's office. When she received no answer, she pushed open the door and poked her head through. "Henry?" The office was empty. She had called ahead and scheduled an appointment. It would be perfectly normal were she to wait in the office. She slipped inside the room and shut the door behind her. Crossing over to the computer that was wedged in a corner of the crowded room, she wiggled the mouse to deactivate the screen saver and pulled up a list of recently opened files. Next to the computer, the fax machine emitted a series of beeps and then began to chug out a sheet of paper.

_Publicity flier…Cortez file…Myrnoff file…Donation order form…_ Nothing on the list looked promising. With a final whuff, the fax machine spat out its message, print side up. Cecilia automatically glanced down and scanned the page. It was a police report, describing a robbery that had taken place two years earlier in town about one hundred miles from Gotham. A gas station had been hit – the cash register cleaned out and the clerk shot and killed. At the time, the police had made no arrests, but thanks to newly uncovered evidence they finally had a suspect – Bruce Wayne.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** A cookie to anyone who can place the Philistine reference :)

Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found by clicking on my bio and going to my homepage.


	35. What are witches made of?

**A/N** sneaks into forum, ready to duck any unpleasant objects hurled in my general direction The good news is I'm not dead. And I happen to have two very good reasons for the delay!

1) Since posting the last chapter I have moved to a new state, driven close to 1500 miles, started graduate school, taught my first class of freshman composition (something I thought wasn't going to happen until the spring), had my first experience as a bridesmaid, moved two and a half carloads of stuff, filled out tax forms, and acquired the complete first season of Hogan's Heroes. (Ok, maybe that last bit isn't such a great excuse. BTW, if there are any fellow fans reading this, "Hogan and Klink: The Master Commander" by GSJessica is by far one of the best stories I've read on this site in any category.) Also, for the first time in four years, I have all of my books in the same geographic location. I feel like a dragon who's regained a stolen hoard!

2) As any author of a moderately long story will tell you, things aren't perfectly planned out from the beginning. There are certain events one wants to happen, but in between those events are blank spots. The last chapter ended on the edge of the last of the major blank spots in this story, and it took me awhile to figure out how to bridge the gap between points V and W.

**Thank you** to IcyWaters for her excellent suggestions and her polite but firm reminders that I was abominably behind in updating.

**Disclaimer** If you don't know what goes here, then _I'm _certainly not going to tell you.

**Chapter 34**

_A little learning is a dangerous thing.  
- Alexander Pope_

Dick stared around the bare, empty room in disappointment. While the attic rooms of Wayne Manor were very large, they were also very boring. Television had led him to believe that attics were generally full of old but interesting things like pirate maps to buried treasure and enormous rocking horses, but these attics held nothing but some dust and a few dead bugs. Thinking hopefully that there might at least be a secret panel, he began crawling around the perimeter of the room, knocking on the wall.

No secret rooms revealed themselves, but in a far corner he found something almost as good – a dead bat. Every few weeks, one of the creatures would mysteriously appear inside the mansion. Alfred would look prayerfully toward the ceiling and plead, "Another blessed bat?" Then he would grab a broom and chase it out an open window. It was way better than TV.

This bat had managed to find a flight path all the way to the attic. Then it had probably died of starvation. Or, Dick thought, remembering a Discovery channel program he'd seen about deserts, maybe dehydration. At any rate, the cool attic had prevented the body from decomposing much. Dick poked it, turned it over, and carefully maneuvered the left wing so that it stuck out straight from the body like the right one. He wondered how many times longer the wings were than the furry body between them. Holding the corpse by its tiny feet, he ran downstairs to find his ruler.

- - - - - -

Bruce sat on the floor in his study, half his mind on the files spread out around him, the other half focused on the tiny receiver planted in his ear. He had heard Somerville knock on a door and call for Judas, but since then there had been silence for about two minutes. _What is she doing?_ Bruce was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of loud rustling. It was as if something crinkly had been shoved right over the wire. A moment later, the sound of Judas's booming voice filled the radio waves.

"_Cecilia! I've been worried about you. The police said you were the one to find Simon's body?"_

"_Yes," she admitted, not sounding particularly upset._

"_It's just so hard to believe that Simon was using cocaine!"_

"_And you hadn't noticed anything?" she asked. "You saw him every week."_

"_No. I mean, he was always a bit high-strung. But…he was Simon. Drugs never crossed my mind. This is going to devastate the kids."_

There was a sharp knock on the study door, and it flew open to reveal one of the daily maids. She was panting, and her face was pale. "Please, sir, Mr. Pennyworth says to come to the front hall. Master Dick's been hurt."

Bruce found himself racing into the front hall with no clear memory of how he had gotten there. Skidding to a halt, he dropped to his knees beside Alfred, who was bending over Dick's still body.

"His breathing's all right," the butler said without being asked. "But I can't tell if anything's broken. We've phoned for an ambulance."

There was no blood and no limbs were turned at conspicuously odd angles, but that didn't mean something wasn't fractured…_like his neck._ "What happened?" Bruce demanded.

"I think he jumped from up there." Alfred nodded toward the second floor where a railing ran along the edge of the hallway next to the main staircase.

"Jumped?" Bruce asked in disbelief. He looked back down at his ward, finally noticing a tangle of what appeared to be bamboo poles and plastic wrap. "What's this?"

"Wings."

"He was trying to fly?" Bruce stared at Alfred, the cold, sick feeling in his stomach intensifying.

"It was my fault, sir. When he asked for the plastic wrap, I should have suspected…"

Alfred broke off as sirens screamed outside the house. A minute later, uniformed paramedics ran into the room. Bruce could only stand back and watch helplessly as they examined Dick, then gently transferred him to a stretcher.

The ride to the hospital seemed an eternity, the wait outside the x-ray room even longer. Bruce paced back and forth in the room that was mercifully empty,fighting a wave of helplessness and terror that was more shattering than anything he'd felt in twenty years. Alfred was following in one of the cars, and Bruce wished that he would get here, that anyone would get here, wishing deeply, impossibly…

"Mr. Wayne?"

He spun eagerly. "Yes?"

A stern looking nurse stood in the doorway. "There's a woman here who claims she's your fiancée."

"My…"

Suddenly, Rachel pushed past the nurse into the room. "Bruce!" She threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly. "Rachel?"

"Alfred called me," she said, her face muffled against his coat. "How is he?"

"Still in x-rays." He glanced up. The nurse was gone, apparently satisfied. "My fiancée?" he whispered.

"I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me in, and all I could think of was that stupid movie."

"It doesn't matter." He pulled her closer and rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Thank you for coming." He was incredibly grateful for the comfort she offered and for the love she so obviously had for Dick.

They stood silently for a long minute, until a gruff voice in the doorway said, "Mr. Wayne?" Rachel pulled away, and a white-coated doctor entered the room. "We've completed the tests. Everything seems to be fine."

Bruce closed his eyes in relief. "No fractures?"

"No. He is one very fortunate little boy. We're still concerned about the bump on his head, but there's no apparent reason why he shouldn't wake up within the next few hours," the doctor said cautiously.

"What does that mean?" Rachel demanded.

"Head injuries are tricky things. There may be things going on that the CAT scan couldn't pick up. But at the moment there is no reason for undue concern."

"Great," Rachel muttered and crossed her arms.

"You can see him now, if you'd like," the doctor offered. As they both stepped forward he amended, "Just Mr. Wayne."

Rachel's glare turned poisonous, but the physician ignored her. Bruce cast her a quick, apologetic glance before following the other man out of the room.

Dick lay on his back, hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. His face was as white as the sheet could cover him, and Bruce could see an unnerving crisscross of blue veins behind the translucent skin. He sat down next to the bed and willed the kid to wake up, to open his eyes, even to twitch. But Dick's deathly stillness remained unbroken for the allowed length of his visit.

As Bruce returned to the waiting room, he met Alfred coming up the hall "How is he, sir?" the butler asked anxiously.

Bruce scowled. "The same." Something was poking through his haze of anxiety. Alfred looked worried of course, but it was more than that. His always impeccable suit looked almost…disheveled. "Alfred, did something happen on the way to the hospital?"

"I'm afraid the local police and I had a small difference of opinion over my method of conducting a motor vehicle."

"You got a speeding ticket?"

"Actually, they tried to arrest me for exceptionally reckless driving." Alfred paused, then added, "I may have run a red light. However, once they were apprised of the situation they were quite understanding."

"You resisted arrest?" Bruce demanded, in a rather louder and more accusatory tone than he'd intended. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking, sir, about a little boy who had been very badly hurt because he lacked proper supervision."

Bruce stiffened. Alfred drew away, his eyes cast down. "If you'll excuse me. Sir."

- - - - - -

Gordon was hunched over his desk, speed reading through a two inch stack of reports when there was a knock on the door and an officer poked his head into the room. "Lieutenant? There's a Miss Somerville here to see you."

Gordon scribbled his signature into the box marked with a red sticky tab. "Send her in." He heard footsteps and the sound of the door closing, but he deliberately flipped through the next report before looking up to where she stood, not at all impatient at being made to wait. "Miss Somerville, what can I do for you?"

Meeting his eyes squarely she asked, "Can we talk…?" The unspoken "here" echoed through the office.

Gordon examined her serious face, then nodded. "Do you have a car?"

"I'd rather take yours."

"Fair enough, I could use some lunch anyway." He opened the door and allowed her to precede him through the station and out into the parking lot.

As they pulled up to a stoplight a block away he said quietly, "Start talking, Miss Somerville."

"Lieutenant, what do you do if you think a witness is being coerced?"

"That depends," Gordon said slowly, shifting gears as the light turned green. "Six months ago, I'd have said, 'Order flowers for his funeral.'"

"And now?"

"It depends. Does this have anything to do with Golding's murder?"

"No. I think you are aware that I'm in charge of Richard Grayson's custody case?"

"Yes." Gordon turned into a McDonald's parking lot and pulled into the drive-thru line.

"I don't think anyone would argue that Bruce Wayne is a saint, but I have reason to believe that someone is deliberately trying to discredit him."

"Reason as in evidence?" Gordon asked, pulling the car forward another few inches.

"Not yet. But I'd like to have something to offer the witness when I talk to him."

It was their turn to order. "You want anything?" Gordon asked. She shook her head, so he cranked down his window and shouted his own order at the crackling black box.

They remained silent until he'd picked up his food, and they pulled out of the parking lot. "There's a number I can call," Gordon said finally. "But only if it's absolutely necessary." It was a number the Bat had given him, and he'd already used it twice, much to the frustration of his superiors in the department. Too many more witnesses in the hands of the feds and they were going to have his head.

"Only if necessary," she agreed. "Can you arrange for me to talk to the man?"

"Yes," Gordon ate a French fry, wondering how she was going to like this next part. "And I want you to wear a wire."

Her lips twitched as if at some private joke. "Of course."

- - - - - -

Michael George Banks, Jr. was definitely nervous. Beneath Cecilia's cool gaze he shifted from one foot to the other, rubbed his palms along his pant legs, adjusted his glasses, ran his hand through his hair, and refused to meet her eyes.

"Mr. Banks, I'm Cecilia Somerville. I work with Henry Judas down at Social Services." She stepped forward and extended her hand.

He barely touched her fingers with a hand that was cold and damp. "Pleased to meet you."

"The police have explained why I'm here?"

He nodded in short, nervous jerks.

"Good." She glanced around the room with its gray, peeling paint and battered conference table and chairs. "This is hardly the most congenial atmosphere. Why don't we go and get some coffee? There's a Starbucks just around the corner."

He shrugged, so she took that as a yes and escorted him out of the station. Inside the coffee shop, she settled them at a table away from the windows and away from the back corner where Gordon sat with his head buried in a newspaper. There were a couple of other cops as well, but no one took particular interest in the new arrivals.

Cecilia curled her hands around her latte. "Tell me, Mr. Banks…may I call you Michael?" He jerked his head in assent. "Michael, do you have any children?"

His hands tightened convulsively around his own coffee cup. "Two," he muttered.

"Sons?"

"Boy and a girl."

She smiled kindly. "As a man with children of your own, you understand why I have to be so careful in this case. We can't afford to make mistakes when there is a child involved."

"Yes, I understand." He straightened, tried to look her in the eye, and failed.

"Do you ever worry about your children, Michael?"

His whole body went rigid, tension radiating out of him in shock waves. "Sure," he muttered, "sure."

She picked at a chip on the rim of her mug. "Do you think that sometimes when we worry intensely about something, our perception of reality might shift? So much so that we actually begin to remember things that never happened?"

He jerked and coffee splashed onto the table. "I don't know what you mean."

She pushed him her napkin and opened the file she'd been carrying. "This report says that you were in the store when the robbery took place, is that correct?"

He answered with a cautious nod.

"And two years ago, you claimed that you were in the back – that you didn't know the store was being robbed until you heard the shot that killed the clerk."

"That's right." He looked a little relieved now, as if they were on familiar ground.

"You told the police you never saw the gunman. That when you arrived at the front of the store he was gone."

"I didn't remember. I'd blocked out the memory."

"And why would you do such a thing?"

"Because I saw him shoot the clerk. He shot the clerk, then pulled up his mask to lean over and look at the body. That's when I saw his face. I still don't remember what happened right after that. He must have put the mask back on and run away. I called the police after that."

"Tell me, Michael, what provoked this miraculous return of memory?" Cecilia allowed the slightest hint of incredulity to slip into her voice.

"The police came to me, wanted me to talk to a special psychologist. They said they thought he could help me remember more clearly what had happened."

"Before then, did you feel like your memory was incomplete?"

He shrugged. "Everything was fuzzy."

"But you are now certain that the man you saw was Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Wayne is a billionaire. What possible reason could he have for robbing a gas station?"

He shrugged. "Guys like him don't need a reason. They do things for the hell of it."

"Michael, are you aware that you will be required to testify about this in a court of law? Mr. Wayne's lawyers will insist you be examined by other psychologists; they may have differing opinions on the state of your memory. You could be convicted of perjury."

He finally looked her straight in the eye, desperate. "I'm telling the truth! You've got to believe that!"

Cecilia let her gaze slip just over the witness's shoulder. In the back corner, Gordon slowly lowered his newspaper and laid it on his table. Cecilia reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a phone.

"Call your wife, Michael. Tell her to take the kids and drive south on Interstate 101. Tell her to pull off at the rest station between exits 49 and 50. She'll be met by someone who can keep them safe."

He stared at the phone as if it were a cobra. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you really think that if you lie for them they'll leave you alone? What if you fail? What if the psychologists decide that you're lying? Do you really think they'll leave your family unpunished?"

His fear was so thick it was almost a visible cloud. "I don't…I can't…"

"Trust me, Michael."

"Why should I?"

"Because I haven't threatened to kill you."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **I admit it! I was seduced by a Mary Stewart romance novel! Which is why review responses won't be up until tomorrow. By I hereby solemnly swear not to watch another episode of Hogan's Heroes until they are posted.

Super kudos (and soft and chewy macadamia nut cookies) to those of you (I think there were three) who recognized the Philistine reference in the last chapter. It does come from the Old Testament book of First Samuel, when David is trying to win the hand of the princess Michel in marriage. Her father, King Saul, demands a hundred Philistine foreskins for a bride price. It was, of course, a ploy to get David killed, since Saul detested him. I find the whole idea completely revolting, but I guess I've got to chalk it up to a difference in cultural values…


	36. That's right, witches are made of wood!

**A/N** Updated on time! Yay me! clap clap clap

Much thanks, as always, to my bat-beta, IcyWaters!

**Disclaimer**

Jingle bells, Batman smells,

Joker played a trick.

Batmobile lost a wheel,

I only wrote this fic!

**Chapter 35**

_Henri: Is there anything you don't do?_

_Danielle: Fly!_

_- Ever After_

Alfred shoved through the door of the waiting room, too upset to analyze what had just happened. Rachel jumped to her feet and hurried over. "Alfred! I was wondering where you were."

"I had some traffic trouble." He took her hand and patted it gently. She clung back.

"Thank you so much for calling me."

"Of course," he said simply.

She sighed softly, then pulled her hand away and folded her arms. "The tests came back clear, but he's still unconscious. Bruce is with him now."

"Mmm," Alfred murmured, wondering uncomfortably where the man actually was. "You got here in good time."

"I almost didn't get in at all. Only close family is supposed to be allowed up here." She smiled ruefully. "I had to pull a _While You Were Sleeping_ and tell them I was Bruce's fiancée."

"What?" he demanded, so startled he actually jerked.

"It's all right, Bruce already knows. We'll keep it contained."

Despite her reassurances, a pucker of worry formed between the old man's brows. He walked over to the window and stared unseeingly down at the Martha Wayne memorial garden.

"Alfred, what happened? I didn't have a chance to ask Bruce."

He was silent for a moment, still watching the garden. "He was trying to fly," he said at last, and his tone had a sharp edge of decisiveness to it. "He jumped from the front hall second story balcony with a wing-like apparatus strapped to his arms."

Rachel was silent, but even with his back turned to her, Alfred could almost see the mental math clicking through her head as she predictably added up to an ugly suspicion. "I see," she said heavily.

_My dear Miss Rachel, have you ever?_

Bruce, balancing three Styrofoam cups of coffee, pushed through the door of the waiting room. He offered Rachel hers with a faint, apologetic smile. "It's probably thick enough to pave a road."

"Thanks," she said, not smiling back.

Bruce offered a cup to Alfred, not quite meeting the old man's eyes. "Coffee?"

"Thank you, Master Bruce."

Bruce walked over to the window with his own cup and stood staring down at the same garden Alfred had observed earlier. Alfred wondered whether the younger man knew what it was, but this hardly seemed like the appropriate moment to discuss it.

- - - - - -

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. He didn't want to look anymore at the snowy patch that had supposedly been created in honor of his mother, or think about people being reduced to nothing but an "in memory." Considering who had made the executive decision to release the funds, it was really more like the "To the Glory of Earle" garden, anyway.

It was interesting, he thought, to discover how very little he mattered to himself. To finally see how very little anything mattered, next to this. In a purely abstract way, he realized that outside the hospital there was still a city full of people whose lives mattered immensely, but for him, the only reality was the kid – his kid – lying in there on the white bed and hooked up to the heart monitor. And he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Dick didn't wake up, nothing else would ever really matter again.

- - - - - -

Cecilia handed her keys to the valet and walked slowly up the Manor steps. Banks was safely away, thanks to Gordon's contact. It was the other side's move now, and she tried hard to put herself on the other side of the board, to predict the moves of black as well as white.

It wasn't until she was inside the house that she realized she had had to open the door for herself. Tilting her head, she listened carefully. The mansion was always quiet, but now the stillness had a dead feel, as if the place really was devoid of life. Pulling off her coat and gloves, she stepped through the entrance foyer and into the expanse of the front hall. Two maids were standing next to some sort of wreckage. They seemed to be having an argument, although they spoke in such soft tones that not even an echo traveled back to Cecilia's hearing. The two women abruptly silenced as they saw her approach.

"What's happened here?" Cecilia asked, examining the tangle of stick and plastic.

"It's young Master Dick, ma'am," one of them explained, looking worried. "He's had an accident."

"An accident?" Cecilia prompted.

"Yes, ma'am. Nobody saw what happened, but we think he built himself some sort of wings."

"Is he all right?"

"We don't know. He was knocked unconscious and they took him to the hospital nearly four hours ago."

"Good heavens," Cecilia muttered, dropping to her knees beside the broken wings.

"Please, ma'am, what should we do with it?" It was the younger maid who spoke this time. "Mr. Pennyworth didn't leave any instructions."

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." Cecilia carefully gathered up the mess and stood. "Do you know where the boy built this thing?"

"We think it was in the gym, Miss Somerville."

"Thank you." Cecilia carted her armful of wreckage down the hall. She had to turn sideways to fit through the gym door, but once inside, it was apparent why the maids thought the wings had been built there. A roll of duct tape, a pair of scissors, a measuring tape, some odd lengths of bamboo, and an empty box of Saran wrap lay on one side of the hardwood floor. There was also a sheet of paper covered with Dick's rather large printing and a dead bat. Cecilia gently poked the tiny corpse with her toe, then picked up the sheet. At the top were printed "Bat" and "Me," and there was a row of numbers beneath each one. The rest of the paper was filled with simple, though far above second grade level, equations.

Cecilia began to frown as she followed the trail of numbers down the page, and when she finished, her mouth was tight with anger. Dropping the paper back to the floor, she marched out of the gym and headed straight for Wayne's office. His "real" office, not the "thinking room." She was in luck. The computer was on and the network passwords had already been entered.

- - - - - -

The doctor pushed through the door. "Mr. Wayne?" Three pairs of intent eyes immediately fastened on his face. He smiled. "Richard just woke up."

Bruce suddenly understood what the phrase "knees weak with relief" meant. He leaned back against the window frame. "He's all right, then?"

The doctor nodded. "It would appear so. He was asking for you."

Bruce found that his legs worked again. The doctor jogged along beside, trying to keep up. "Don't excite him, Mr. Wayne."

"Right." Bruce forced himself to come to a complete stop before he entered the room. Dick was still lying motionless on his back, but his eyes were open and they turned toward Bruce as he approached. Bruce dropped into the chair by the bed. "Hey, buddy."

"Hey," the boy whispered after a moment.

"You gave us a pretty bad scare, but the doctor says you're going to be ok. Do you remember what happened?"

Dick frowned slightly. "My wings." His frown deepened. "They didn't work."

Bruce heard a soft sound at the doorway and turned to see Alfred standing just outside the room. "It looks like someone else is here to see you."

Bruce stood and let the butler take the chair. "Hello, Master Dick."

"Hey Alfred."

"How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts."

"I should think so. That was a very nasty accident you had."

Dick sighed and closed his eyes. "It should have worked." He fell silent and for a while it appeared as if he had gone to sleep. "Bruce?" he asked suddenly, his eyes still closed. "Can we go home?"

"Yeah," Bruce promised unhesitatingly. "We can go home."

It took some fast-talkingwith the doctor, but Bruce finally got the man to concede that a private nurse at home would be as effective as an overnight hospital stay. An hour and several reams of paperwork later, the billionaire carefully lifted his heavily bundled ward out of a wheelchair to carry him to the smaller limo. Unfortunately, the moment Bruce stepped outside, flanked by Alfred and Rachel, he was greeted by a barrage of camera flashes and shouted questions.****Bruce cringed. If he'd been thinking straight, he would have had a delivery van pull around to a side entrance or something.

"Mr. Wayne, is the boy all right?"

"Hey Bruce, how's it feel to be a family man?"

"Counselor Dawes, what's your relationship with boy?"

"About that hostage situation last week…"

"Counselor, is it true you and Wayne are talking about wedding bells?"

Bruce hurriedly thrust Dick into the backseat and helped Rachel in after him. Firmly shutting the door on them, he turned around and held up his hands. The clamoring reporters hushed. "Thank you all for your concern, Richard is going to be fine. I can't answer any more questions right now because we need to get him home." Reopening the door, he hopped in with Alfred hot on his heels. The driver gunned his engine, and the reporters reluctantly pulled away from the vehicle as it began to inch forward.

- - - - - -

Rachel was looking for Bruce. Dick was safely asleep in his own bed under the watchful eye of a private nurse, and Alfred had declared that it was high time the rest of them had something decent to eat. Rachel saw light streaming from the partially open door of Bruce's office and hurried forward. The room's occupant, however, was not the room's owner. Somerville lounged against the side of the desk, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, flipping rapidly through a thick manila file. Dressed in oversized sweats and with her hair hanging down her back in a single, thick braid, she looked utterly, and disgustingly, at home.

"What," began Rachel, and it came out as a hiss. "What are you doing in here?"

Somerville glanced over briefly and returned her attention to the file. "Counselor Dawes, what an unexpected pleasure."

Rachel stormed into the room. "I asked what you were doing in here."

"Oh, the usual office activities – juggling finances, playing solitaire, ruining other people's careers…" she broke off as the phone crackled in her ear. "Yes?...Hello, Mr. Dwight…Mr. Harrison has explained the situation to you?...Yes, I was sure you would see it that way…Quite so…I'm certain Mr. Wayne will prefer his legal counsel to handle things. It's such a distasteful matter…I understand your position, but Mr. Wayne is confident you'll take a proper course of action. No, I see no reason at this time to notify the national council…You're welcome. Goodbye, Mr. Dwight." She hung up the phone and smiled – the sleek and menacing smile of Shylock dragging Antonio before the judge.

"You seem very certain of Mr. Wayne's opinions," Rachel snapped.

Somerville looked over at her, and the smile deepened. "Wayne is going to do exactly what I tell him to."

Rachel's hands clenched and she drew a sharp breath, but before she could speak, Alfred appeared in the doorway. His shrewd eyes swept across the scene, taking in Rachel's tense posture and the file in Somerville's hand, but all he said was, "There you are, Miss Somerville. Would you care to join us in a light supper?"

"Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, that would be lovely."

Rachel stepped back and made certain Somerville preceded her out of the room, then snapped the door shut behind them. This apparently amused Somerville, and she sounded practically jovial as she asked, "And how is Richard doing?"

"He's quite well, thank you Miss Somerville. A headache, but that's to be expected. We're only thankful it wasn't much worse."

They were nearly to the kitchen when they met Bruce coming the other way, cordless phone in hand. "Yes, thank you Mr. Fox. We'll be right down." He clicked off the phone and looked at the other three. "The box is in the vault at the Tower. Fox is waiting for us to open it."

"Does Richard need to be there?" Somerville asked.

"What box?" Rachel demanded.

Bruce looked at her, slowly realizing that he hadn't had a chance to really talk to her since Somerville had, figuratively, stripped off his mask. "We've found a box that belonged to Richard's parents. And, no," he added, looking at Somerville. "Dick doesn't have to be there. Fox checked with legal, and as Dick's guardians, he and I can open it." He tossed the phone onto a small table. "We should go down right away. Someone needs to stay here with Dick."

"I will," Rachel offered quietly.

Bruce tossed her a small smile – tired, grateful, intimate. "Thank you."

Alfred picked up the phone. "I'll have a car sent around."

Five minutes later, Bruce and Alfred met at the front door, securely wrapped against the night's chill. Bruce glanced down the hall. "Where's Somerville?"

"I believe she's in the kitchen."

Muttering, Bruce hurried down the hallways. "Are you coming?" he demanded in irritation, sticking his head through the kitchen door.

She looked up from the sandwich she was assembling. "I didn't think my presence would be welcomed."

"You found the thing. Besides, I'd prefer that you observe for yourself that all due legal processes are observed."

"Very wise of you." She slapped the top of her sandwich on and wrapped it in a napkin. "And I have to confess to an almost unbearable itch of curiosity. Whatever's in that box is well worth seeing."

Maybe it was her honest eagerness to see the contents of the box, or maybe it was the absence of her usual "executive from a third class hell" appearance, but Somerville was coming across as almost human. As he followed her down the hall, Bruce wondered if she was closer to his own age than he had at first assumed. A flickering hope emerged that the shaky alliance they had formed would hold. They joined Alfred who was already waiting in the car, and the vehicle took off through the frosty night.

- - - - - -

Dick blinked open his eyes and turned his head. A strange woman, dressed all in white was standing next to his bed. She smiled down at him. "Hello, young sir."

"Who are you?"

"Nurse Cherry, dear. I'm taking care of you for tonight."

Sudden anxiety seized him and he struggled to sit up, his head throbbing. "Where's Bruce?"

"He had to go out for a bit, dear, but Rachel Dawes is here. She ran downstairs, but she should be back in a moment."

Dick sank back against his pillow, relieved. "Oh good. I like it when Rachel is here."

Nurse Cherry smiled kindly. "I'm sure you do. And she'll be here all the time, soon enough."

Dick stared up hopefully. "She will?"

"Of course, dear, after she marries Mr. Wayne."

The news came as a surprise to Dick, but after a moment's thought he decided, "That's a good idea."

Cherry smiled in amusement. "I guess they thought so, too."

Dick's eyes were fluttering shut again. "Bruce and me," he mumbled around a yawn, "we like Rachel a lot." If Rachel came to stay, he thought fuzzily, they'd be almost like the family on the back of the cornflakes box. All they would need was a baby.

When Rachel entered the room a minute later, Dick was snoring gently. "He woke up for a minute and talked to me quite clearly," Cherry said in a low voice.

"That's good," Rachel whispered back and gently smoothed the boy's hair away from his forehead.

Nurse Cherry, looking at the tender expression on the D.A.'s face, smiled knowingly.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage.

Also, I thought you all might find it interesting to know that Bruce Wayne is the seventh richest fictional character in America. Here's a list of the fifteen richest according to _Forbes Magazine_. Thank you to Chigger for sending me the list!

1. Santa Clause $?

2. Richie Rich - 24.7 billion

3. Oliver "Daddy" Warbucks - 10 billion

4. Scrooge McDuck - 8.2 billion

5. Thurston Howell III - 8 billion

6. Willie Wonka - 8 billion

7. Bruce Wayne - 6.3 billion

8. Lex Luthor - 4.7 billion

9. J.R. Ewing - 2.8 billion

10. Auric Goldfinger - 1.2 billion

11. C. Montgomery Burns - 1 billion

12. Charles Foster Kane - 1 billion

13. Cruella De Vil - 875 million

14. Gordon Gekko - 650 million

15. Jay Gatsby - 600 million


	37. What else is made of wood?

**A/N** Ha! Bet most of you didn't expect me to get another chapter up so fast, did you? As a matter of fact, this semester is getting off to a really slow start, so I'm taking advantage of it while I can.

Thanks, as always, to my bat-beta, IcyWaters!

**Disclaimer** Should any mental discomfort be experienced during the reading of this story, the author is free from all liability because GUESS WHAT? DC COMICS OWNS EVERYTHING!

**Chapter 36**

_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

_- The Ordinary of the Mass (Latin)_

"All present and accounted for?" Fox asked as he swung the door of the vault shut behind them.

Bruce surveyed the assembled party. Fox and Bennett, the company lawyer who had been handling the custody case, plus Somerville, Alfred, and himself, stood in the brightly lit interior of one of the maximum security vaults buried deep beneath Wayne Tower. Bruce wasn't even sure how far underground they were. He did know that the thing was as safe as an atomic bunker.

The room was about fifteen feet wide by thirty feet long. The walls were lined with narrow metal drawers, most of which probably housed files of one top secret sort or another. In the center of the room sat a bare, narrow table, surrounded by chairs that were functional rather than comfortable. This wasn't a conference room, but a Pandora's box, strong enough to contain the evils of the world. And maybe the metaphor wasn't that inappropriate, Bruce thought, remembering Earle's weapons development programs.

In the center of the table rested a gray metal box, with a top surface area of ten by fifteen inches, and not more than three inches deep. Its surface was dull and pitted thanks to the concrete it had been buried in, but it was rust free. A small but strong padlock held the box closed.

"Mr. Wayne, if you wouldn't mind?" Fox asked, holding out a pair of diamond bladed cutters.

"Sure," Bruce said, carefully fitting the tool over the lock hasps and snapping through them. The lock fell to the table with a small clatter. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the lid of the box.

Inside, there was a flat packet about the size of a package of standard notebook paper. The entire thing was wrapped in black plastic. Two oddly shaped smaller packets, also encased in black plastic, sat on top of it. Despite the fact that the interior of the box was lined against moisture, someone had apparently been worried about the Florida dampness.

Bruce picked up one of the small packages and unwrapped it. An oval shaped locket on a gold chain slid into his hand. He gently slipped his thumbnail between the sides and opened it. The tiny picture of the smiling couple inside had to be Dick's parents. He wondered whether they had had any idea of what was going to happen to them. He passed the locket to Alfred and picked up the next package. It proved to hold an old-fashioned pocket knife engraved with the initials CRM.

Finally, he picked up the large packet that lay in the bottom of the box and slid a sheaf of papers out of the plastic. There was a sealed envelope addressed to Richard Grayson, a marriage certificate, a birth certificate, some sort of legal contract, and a stack of ordinary printer paper covered with line after line of neatly printed equations. "Your area, Mr. Fox," Bruce said, handing him the sheets before returning his attention to the certificates.

The first certified that Charles Richard Maddox had been joined to Robyn Gwenifer Grayson in legal matrimony. "He took her name," muttered Bruce. "That's why we could never trace him!"

The birth certificate appeared to be an identical copy to the one social services already had on record.

Bennett had picked up the contract and was flipping through it. He peered closely at a page and made a lawyerish sort of "hmm" sound in the back of his throat.

Bruce looked over. "What's up?"

"Even though Wayne Enterprises was funding Grayson's research, Grayson insisted on retaining full rights to anything he discovered. Wayne Enterprises got the first bid option, that's all."

"Smart man. I wonder how he got that one past Earle?"

"Maybe Mr. Earle was so desperate to get his hands on Mr. Grayson's work that he was willing to agree to anything, at least temporarily," Alfred suggested.

"If I'm right," Fox finally spoke, his head still bent over the top sheet of equations, "he would have agreed to swap his firstborn child."

Everyone else looked at him. "So what is it?" Bruce demanded.

Fox shrugged slightly and finally lifted his head. "I'm a pretty good mathematician," he said, "but this stuff is…new. If I'm reading it right, Grayson's come up with a mathematical formula for slowing time."

Bruce gave a muffled exclamation of disbelief. "So what, he figured out how to make the world stop turning?"

"Not all time," Fox explained, "but time within a contained field." He frowned, struggling to think of an appropriate analogy. "Maybe it's better to think of it as stretching time. A rubber band has the same amount of material in it, no matter how far you stretch it, but it contains more space. So a stretched minute of time is still just a minute – but if you're inside the stretch, inside the circumference of the rubber band, it's more. Say you're growing cultures. Take the bacteria, put it in your field, and a minute later, the culture has grown as much as it normally would in a month."

"Holy cow," Bruce muttered, the implications starting to sink in.

"This could change the entire face of scientific research," Fox agreed.

"And you can tell all of this from the first page?" Bennett asked.

"Sure. The complete formula's right here. The rest of these," Fox hefted the stack of paper, "are probably the proofs."

"So now we know why Earle's after Dick," Bruce said, absently pulling out one of the chairs from the table and sitting down. "But what I'd still like to know is, who was Charles Maddox?"

"Nutty Charlie the mad Maddox," Somerville said suddenly, speaking for the first time since the box had been opened. She had been examining the open locket, and now she set it carefully on the table and looked up at the rest of them. "UCLA campus legend when I was an undergrad. Anyone who got too intense about their studying was called a Maddox and told that Nutty Charlie was going to come for them. Supposedly, he was this brilliant science student who just disappeared. The legend runs that he studied so hard he went insane and threw himself into the harbor. It was a long time before I was there, though."

"I remember that," Fox said slowly. "Ten, maybe fifteen years ago. The school tried to hush it up. Seems like one of the faculty was under suspicion. I don't remember what happened."

Bruce looked over at the lawyer. "Mr. Bennett, can you look into this?"

The lawyer nodded. "First thing in the morning."

Bruce picked up the sealed envelope that had been with the rest of the papers. "Do we open this?"

"Yes," Bennett advised. "It may shed some light on the rest of this."

Bruce tore open the top of the envelope and pulled out the two pieces of paper inside. The first was a holographic will, leaving everything to Dick. He passed it to Bennett and glanced over the second sheet. Alfred stepped closer, and Bruce tilted the paper so that the older man could read too.

"What is it, Mr. Wayne?" Bennett asked.

"A personal note to Dick from his parents. It doesn't say anything about…" Bruce gestured at the formula. "…that. Or about what happened to Charles."

"All right," Fox said, suddenly brisk. "We better get to work. Alfred, will you help me lay out these pages so that I can photograph them? Then if Miss Somerville would come along behind and pick them up in the proper order."

Fifteen minutes later, all the contents of the box had been photographed, everything had been packed away into two of the metal drawers, and the vault was again left in darkness.

- - - - - -

Bruce tiptoed into the dim interior of Dick's room. Nurse Cherry sat in a chair near the door, reading with the aid of a small book light. "He woke up a couple of times, Mr. Wayne," she whispered as he entered, "and seemed very alert and coherent."

"Good," Bruce whispered back. He moved to the side of the bed and saw that Rachel had lain down on top of the covers, apparently as fast asleep as the boy. The hint of a smile on his face was erased by a tearing stab of guilt as he looked down at the black bruise on Dick's forehead, visible even in the faint light. He had known, even before Alfred had said anything at the hospital, that this was completely his fault.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he nodded a good night to the nurse and hurried out of the room. There were too many emotions, too many things to think about. Bruce felt as if he were teetering on the verge of madness as he ran down the stairs, not sure where to go, what to do…

"Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, that does sound like a good idea." Bruce jumped as Somerville's voice sounded in his ear. He had completely forgotten that he still wore the tiny earpiece, until he had come back into range of the transmitter. The wire she wore actually used a satellite relay to transmit to a recording device in the caverns. That device then sent the signal on to his earpiece, but its range was limited. He remembered that he had no idea what Somerville had been doing all day. He had been at the hospital when he was supposed to have been keeping surveillance on her, and he had been listening (via the transmitters) to her when Dick had launched his ill-judged flight experiment.

The whole day, in fact, had been a gory example of why one man couldn't live two lives. His emotions took a sudden and decisive swing toward anger. Storming into the study, Bruce jerked two thick volumes of Greek tragedy off the shelves, pushed open a small panel, and punched a number into a key pad. It was the only way to access this entrance into the caverns now that he had disabled the piano. He slammed the books back onto the shelf and took the lift down into the cool sanctuary of the bat cave.

- - - - - -

Alfred was puttering with the orchids in the pool room/conservatory, trying to work up his nerve. He felt heavy and sick with failure, knowing, as he did, that the day's events had been entirely his fault. Bruce had disappeared as soon as they had returned to the Manor, and Alfred had spent two hours on this and that, putting off the inevitable. At last, after reducing a _phalaenopsis_ to a ragged stalk, he put down his clippers and set his shoulders determinedly. Delay was only going to make things harder. Besides, he owed it to Bruce to be the one to voice the words.

Alfred entered the study just as Bruce exited from behind the bookshelves. "Sir," the butler plunged in without preamble, "I've come to offer my resignation."

Instead of looking relieved, as Alfred had half expected he would, Bruce looked as if he'd been socked in the gut. "Why?" he finally asked.

"Please sir, don't make this more difficult than it already is. We both know that what happened to young Master Dick today was my fault. I should have kept a better eye on him. And furthermore, he came to me and requested the plastic. If only I'd asked what he wanted it for, I could have prevented…" the butler broke off, too upset to continue.

Bruce slumped slightly with relief, and a small smile even pulled up the corners of his mouth. "Alfred, do you remember that time I fell down the old well and broke my arm?"

"How could I forget?"

"Did my father ask for your resignation because you hadn't kept a better eye on me?"

"No, sir. But things were different then. Besides, you didn't have to ask."

Bruce's smile faded. "Alfred, I know what you're trying to do. But it won't work. It's painfully obvious why Dick jumped off the balcony."

"Sir, don't delude yourself into thinking that the only reason the boy took it into his head to fly is because you…"

Bruce slammed his hand down on the desk. "He told me, Alfred! Months ago, he told me exactly what his intentions were. He was going to learn how to fly so that…"

He was interrupted by a snort and a chuckle. Somerville's head appeared around the high back of a deep leather chair where she'd been sitting concealed from view. "Don't stop," she pleaded, "this is better than a Victorian melodrama." Both men simply stared at her, so she continued, "I do apologize for interrupting the performance, but it was just too funny to hear you squabbling over the guilt like a couple of hens over an earwig. Don't forget to blame the makers of Saran wrap and duct tape for their share in the business. And Charles Grayson for bequeathing his son such a brilliant mind."

Bruce's fury was written clearly in his expression, and he took a sudden step forward. Alfred caught his arm. "Master Wayne, perhaps Miss Somerville can explain her presence."

She stood up and came around the chair. "Actually, Wayne, I was waiting for you. We have a few matters to discuss. I also wanted to inform you that I've started proceedings against the real culprit of today's fiasco."

"And who might that be, Miss Somerville?" Bruce asked with sarcastic courtesy.

"Miss Tracy, of course." She leaned against the side of heavy chair and returned his gaze evenly. "Richard isn't your average second grader. He was hardly going to jump off the roof with an umbrella and expect to parachute down. He worked it all out mathematically, by dimension…I take it you haven't seen the evidence in the gym?"

Bruce silently shook his head.

"He found a dead bat somewhere, and he proportioned the wings to his own height. Unfortunately, he neglected the rather important matter of body density, and he seemed entirely ignorant of such usual scientific practice as consulting with other authorities, or even simple safety precautions like wearing a helmet. But he was convinced it would work because he figured it out mathematically, and he had been led to believe that when it came numbers he could do no wrong." All traces of amusement had faded from Somerville's face. In fact, if the coldness of her eyes and the iciness of her tone were any indication, she was furious. "I have contacted both the agency through which Miss Tracy obtains her employment and the educational board that licenses them. They have agreed to start an immediate investigation, which will no doubt result in the suspension of, if not the permanent revocation of, the woman's teaching license. Whether you will take further legal action against her is, of course, up to you."

"Merciful heavens," muttered Alfred.

Bruce agreed. Somerville was a terror. A living, breathing, holy terror. She had single-handedly chosen a culprit, found her guilty, and destroyed her in the space of a single afternoon. Bruce had no doubt that Miss Tracy's teaching career was over, but any pity he might have felt for her was erased by the brutality of Somerville's logic.

"But about this afternoon." Somerville abruptly switched tracks, her anger disappearing as abruptly as it had come. "How much did you hear?"

"Most of it," Bruce said. "It was all recorded."

"Good, then I won't have to explain everything. Gordon will do a better job of filling in details, since most of it happened on his end."

"How did you know about the charge in the first place?"

"Came in a fax to Judas's office while he wasn't in. Suggestive, isn't it?" Somerville smothered a yawn. "Well, I'm off to bed. You'd better do the same, Mr. Pennyworth," she added kindly. "It's been a long day. Your excellent mental faculties don't seem quite up to capacity this evening." She glanced at Bruce. "I'd offer you the same advice, but I'm afraid your case is beyond the help of simple sleep."

Looking pleased with her own wit, she left the room. Bruce let out an audible groan and perched on the edge of the desk. "I've got the strangest sensation that I've just been hit by a train."

"I understand, sir," Alfred said feelingly.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** Responses to bat-reviews can be found on my homepage! Happy Labor Day to all my fellow Americans! And happy Monday to the rest of you!


	38. A duck!

**A/N** Guess what? Bruce Wayne sent me chocolates last week! Ok, they were actually a belated birthday present with a note that said I should pretend they were from Bruce Wayne. It's amazing how much better chocolate tastes when you pretend it's from a hot billionaire.

Many thanks to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, who saved this chapter from a lot of particularly silly typos.

**Disclaimer** I'm running out of ideas for interesting disclaimers. Next chapter, I'm going to steal one from somebody else's story.

**Chapter 37**

_With friends like you, who needs enemies?_

_- Paul Temple, Season 4, Episode 4_

Henry Judas was not a man who frightened easily. For over a decade he had been bluffing his way through Gotham society with a combination of "old boy" charm and a network of boldfaced lies, filled with contempt for the easy targets the rich and supposedly powerful offered him. But now, sitting across the desk from the pale man who held Gotham in as much contempt as did Judas himself, the white-haired con man was terrified, all the way to the center of his flabby being.

"Last night, Judas," Gatsby said softly. "You promised me I would have the boy by last night."

"If everyone else had done their part of the job you would have," Judas blustered. "I told you we should have taken care of Gordon before…" He broke off, his voice dying beneath Gatsby's unblinking gaze.

"Where and how I choose to deal with Lieutenant Gordon does not concern you. But how well you do your job is very much your concern."

"Look…I'm sorry. It was just a run of bad luck."

"Luck is for useless fools," Gatsby said coldly. "This is your last chance, Judas. I'm certain you don't want to join our late associate Mr. Williams – wherever he is."

Judas gripped his knees, to keep his hands from trembling. "This evening. I'll have him by this evening."

"That's good, Mr. Judas. We're finishing this thing tonight. Whether you're finished with it, is entirely up to you."

- - - - - -

Bruce was in his office by nine o'clock the next morning. He'd met briefly with Gordon the night before to get the details on the "Bruce Wayne framed" situation, then headed out for his usual patrol. But the streets had been quiet – almost eerily so. It was as if the pulse of the city had paused, expectant of a breaking storm. At last he had given in and returned home, rechecked on Dick and Rachel, and gone to bed.

"I thought you might want to see these, sir."

Bruce examined the two magazines Alfred handed. They were both notorious Gotham gossip sheets and both bore pictures of himself and Rachel on the front. The headlines read "A Royal Wedding: The Prince of Gotham's Secret Engagement" and "Is Bruce Ready to Bring Home a Bride?"

Bruce shrugged and tossed the lurid things on the desk. "I can't say I expected anything different. Some receptionist probably called it in five minutes after Rachel told the story."

"It's going to be messy work denying it," Alfred predicted.

"It might almost be easier to stage a break-up," Bruce agreed, while a tiny little voice in the back of his head whispered that wouldn't it be nice if they didn't have to do anything about it at all?

There was a knock on the door and Nurse Cherry appeared, looking cheerful despite her all night vigil.

"Good morning, Ms. Ames," Bruce greeted. "How's Dick?"

"Still asleep, but I woke him twice during the night, and he was always able to tell me his name and where he was. I think he'll be just fine," Nurse Cherry chirped.

"Thank you, Ms. Ames," Bruce said with genuine gratitude. "Do I pay you directly or send it to the hospital?"

"The hospital will bill you." She held out her hand and he shook it. "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Wayne. And may I wish all the best to you and Miss Dawes?"

"Actually…" began Bruce.

"It will be so wonderful for Richard to have a mother figure. And he obviously adores her. Well, I'd best be on my way. Got to catch some sleep. I've got a recovering bypass patient tonight," she added confidentially.

"Goodbye, Ms. Ames. Thank you again."

When she was gone he looked helplessly at Alfred. "You heard me try!"

"You might have tried a little harder," the butler remarked with asperity. "I'll go and see about some breakfast."

Bruce picked one of the tabloids back up and with a sort of morbid curiosity flipped to the article.

"What's so funny?" Rachel asked.

He looked up at her. "Good morning, Miss Dawes. Or should I say, Mrs. Wayne-to-be?" He handed her the magazine.

Rachel uttered a deep and heartfelt groan. "Bruce…I'm so sorry. I didn't think that…I didn't think."

"It's going to be a lot worse for you," Bruce said matter-of-factly. "You're the one with the serious, professional image to maintain."

Rachel groaned again. "Don't remind me. Do you think anyone will actually believe us when we tell them it's all a mistake?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. But I have a suspicion that the more determined reporters would just see it as a brush-off and become even more determined to get the 'real' story."

"What are we…" She broke and shook her head. "No, what am _I_ going to do. And I'm going to have to tell the truth. I'll just say that I was so worried about Dick, that I told a silly lie. Everybody's seen _While You Were Sleeping_. They'll believe me."

"Or, we could just say that you had a mental aberration and the moment you came to your senses you dumped me."

His offer elicited a small smile from her. "Thanks, Bruce, but I made this mess; I'll clean it up."

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the emotional trauma, or the persistence of that little voice, but Bruce suddenly found himself moving so that the expanse of the desk was no longer between them. "Rachel, do we have to clean it up?"

She stared at him, speechless and shocked that he had finally put into words the shadowy thing that hovered between them. Then, as if she wanted to be absolutely sure there was no misunderstanding, she whispered, "What are you suggesting?"

"What do you think I'm suggesting?" he whispered back, wild hope beating its wings against his ribcage because she hadn't pulled away. He placed cautious hands on her shoulders and drew her closer. "Love me. Live with me. Marry me. Rachel." The last word was a whispered caress against her mouth, and she melted into his arms, her lips clinging to his. He kissed her hard, fierce with happiness that the improbable thing had happened. Was happening.

Sharp pain shot through him as she shoved hard against his bruised chest, stepping backward so fast that she tripped and had to catch herself on the edge of the desk. "No! I won't let you do this, Bruce."

"Do what?" he asked, numb with shock.

She turned her back on him, her arms wrapped tightly across her stomach. "Did you go out last night?" she demanded, her voice shrill.

Staring at her rigid back, he finally began to understand. "Damned if I did," he said softly, "and damned if I didn't. That's it, isn't it Rachel? Because it's never enough for you. I loved you," he said slowly, "even back then, when I had no idea who I was and the only goal in my life was revenge. But that wasn't enough. So I left until I understood who I was and had a reason to get up every morning, and I came back to Gotham a better man. But that wasn't enough either, was it? What do you want from me, Rachel? Do I have to sit in heaven and dispense justice with passionless equality? Become a god and deny my humanity? Will that be enough?"

She spun around, angry now and crying. "Bruce. You can't raise a child and be Batman."

"Because you won't let me?"

"Because you can't," she repeated, swiping an angry hand across her wet cheeks. "I'm going home."

He watched her go with a curiously calm feeling. Pain would come later, he knew, but at the moment there was a sense of relief that he finally knew where he stood.

The phone rang. Unthinkingly, Bruce picked it up. "Hello?"

"Mr. Wayne? This is Fox. Turn on the news."

"_And in breaking news,"_ the morning news anchor announced, _"IRS investigations are underway at Wayne Enterprises to look into charges of massive fraud and possible money laundering. And in addition to that, it seems that company president and majority stockholder Bruce Wayne is embroiled in a battle with the state for the custody of his young ward, Richard Grayson."_

The screen cut to a shot of Henry Judas standing on the front steps of the Gotham courthouse, making a statement to a crowd of reporters. _"We've beenlooking into Richard's case for some time, but recent events involving an accident makes it imperative that we give the situation an immediate reevaluation."_

A reporter in the crowd shouted, _"Mr. Judas, do you think it suspicious that Wayne's relationship with chief district attorney Dawes was made public just before you made a legal move against him?"_

"_I wouldn't like to comment on that at this time."_

"Mr. Wayne?" Fox's voice sounded in Bruce's ear.

"I'm here."

"Bennett is on his way over."

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about the company, Mr. Wayne. I'll take care of it. You just take care of your boy."

"I will. Thank you, Mr. Fox." Bruce hung up the phone, and turned to find Alfred at his elbow.

"What did Lucius say?"

Bruce ignored the question. "Where's Somerville?"

"I haven't seen her yet this morning."

Bruce was out of the room before Alfred had even finished speaking. Bounding up two flights of stairs, he arrived at Somerville's bedroom door and pounded on it. A moment later she flung it open, still knotting the cord of her plaid bathrobe. "Mr. Wayne, what's wrong?"

"Hadn't you heard? Judas is taking the case back in front of the judge."

"Really," she said slowly.

"Yes," he snapped. "Really. It made top headlines on this morning's news."

"I had nothing to do with it," she said flatly. "Judas hasn't said a word to me."

"Is that so?"

"Believe what you like, but remember that I will be your strongest ally in the courtroom. Or your worst adversary." She abruptly turned away and walked over to open the cabinet that concealed a flat screen TV. Turning it on, she watched in silence for a few minutes. "So," she said at last, "they've made their move. I wonder why it couldn't wait two more days?"

"I thought you might know."

She looked at him impatiently. "Wayne, you're either going to have to trust me or kill me. Do you think this has anything to do with our finding the formula? How about that lawyer who was there, Bennett. Are you certain he works only for you?"

He smiled bitterly. "I hope so. He's on his way over here for a council of war."

"Oh." Somerville flipped the television off. "If you wouldn't mind leaving," she said pointedly, "I'd rather not go into battle in my pajamas."

Bruce started to pull the door shut behind him, but paused as she called, "Oh, Wayne? If you do decide to kill me, be a dear and dispose of my body in a warmer climate. The Gulf of Mexico would be fine."

He shut the door very gently and thought exclusively in Chinese all the way down the stairs.

- - - - - -

"We believe that gross negligence led to Richard's accident, your honor," Judas declared. "We want to remove him to a safer environment immediately."

"Your honor, it was an accident. Not even the best parents can keep a minute by minute vigil on their children," Bennett protested.

Judge Farr glanced from one side of the table to the other, then looked straight down to the woman who sat across from him. "Miss Somerville, I think you are most able to judge this situation. Was this accident caused by negligence?"

"As far as I had been able to observe, Richard was given adequate supervision and guidance. He is, however, an active little boy with a head full of ideas, and as Mr. Bennett said, unless you keep a guard on a child, it is impossible to watch them all the time. Actually, I'm much more interested in knowing why Mr. Judas asked for this hearing without consulting me, since, as you said, your honor, I am best suited to make a judgment call."

"Justice Farr, the reason I did not consult Miss Somerville was that I had reason to believe she was no longer an impartial judge. In fact, it was through her influence that Richard's tutor was discharged, leaving the boy with that much more time on his own."

"It's true that I urged Mr. Wayne to reconsider Miss Tracy's employment because she was a poor teacher. In fact, I believe her reckless educational practices led directly to Richard's believing that he could fly. I have reported her to the city board of education and they are in the process of reviewing her credentials."

"The boy jumped from a second story balcony wearing a monstrous pair of wings. How is it that no one saw him go up there?"

"Wayne Manor is a very large house. And as soon as the accident occurred, Richard was given immediate medical attention. It is not as if he was left in suffering silence. Judge, I see no reason why this hearing was called today, instead of at the end of the full two weeks as was originally agreed."

"Your honor, Miss Somerville is glibly gilding a very serious deficit in Richard's care. But part of this is my fault. I should never have given her this assignment."

Somerville leaned forward. "What are you insinuating, Mr. Judas?"

Judas refused to look at her, keeping his focus on the judge. "A single woman, living in the home of a notorious man like Mr. Wayne? I blame myself."

"So you suggest that Mr. Wayne seduced me so that I would lie for him in court?" Somerville's voice held a mixture of incredulity, amusement, and disgust. Bruce was suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful for the ugly suits, the thick glasses, the sour grapes expression – every detail that so clearly marked his hated houseguest as not the victim of a seduction.

"Your honor, this is absurd," she pleaded. "If Mr. Judas's evidence consists of taking cheap shots at my character, then I see no further purpose to this hearing."

"I am inclined to agree, Mr. Judas," Farr said. "May I remind you that you appointed Miss Somerville arbiter of this case? Unless you can offer concrete proof of her unsuitability, I am going to adjourn, until the agreed upon trial period is over."

There was a sudden, hunted look to Judas's expression, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. "No, your honor. It seems I called this meeting precipitately. I apologize."

"Very well." Judge Farr turned his eyes back on Bruce. "Mr. Wayne, I believe your engagement to District Attorney Rachel Dawes was announced this morning?"

"Yes, your honor," Bruce said quietly.

"I have had the privilege of working with Counselor Dawes and know that she is an excellent attorney and a fine person. I wish you both the very best."

"Thank you."

Farr left the room, and the lawyers gathered up their respective paperwork. Judas fussed obviously with his brief case, while Somerville sat watching him, smiling sardonically. "Henry, I knew you lacked imagination, but is this the best you could come up with?"

"I'm…this isn't over," he snapped, but his voice lacked conviction. Not meeting anyone's eyes, he hurried out of the room, closely followed by his lawyer.

Bruce finally allowed himself to slump down in his chair and blew out a long, slow breath of relief.

"Miss Somerville, you were magnificent," Bennett congratulated.

She smiled. "I know. Although…" the smile faded into a thoughtful frown. "Judas was in here half cocked. He wasn't prepared to fight this thing, so why did he insist on it?"

"Who knows? But the important thing is, Judge Farr is now on our side."

A security guard appeared in the door of the conference room. "Judge Farr told me to warn you that there's a crowd outside. If you like, I can have your car brought around to the side entrance."

Bruce nodded and tossed him the keys, then pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket. "Hello?...Yes, Mr. Fox…Much better than expected…thirty minutes?" He glanced at his watch. "I can be there." He closed the phone and said, "I need to be at Wayne Tower in half an hour for a press conference."

"I actually have some work to do here, so I'll just catch a cab when I'm done," Bennett decided.

"And if you would be so obliging as to call a taxi for me, I think that my presence at the press conference would not be a good idea," Somerville added.

Bruce obliged, and a minute later the three had gone their separate ways.

- - - - - -

The press conference was held in one of the rooms usually reserved for small business banquets. Fox stood behind the podium and gave a short statement, affirming that they were cooperating with the investigators in every possible way and hinting that the alleged crimes had taken place before the current management had come into power. "We will have a general question and answer session tomorrow," Fox finished, and led the way off the platform. Bruce and the two board members who had been standing behind the chairman, followed.

Bruce shook hands with the board members, and then followed Fox into his office to receive a briefing on everything that he had missed because of the custody hearing. All in all, things on the corporate front were not as bleak as they might have been. Stock, inevitably, was dropping, but the board under Fox's leadership was thus far holding steady.

"Do you think it's just coincidence, Mr. Wayne, that these two items hit the news on the same day – the custody battle and the company investigation?"

"It's a pretty big coincidence to swallow," Bruce admitted. "That box last night explained pretty well why someone is so desperate to get to Dick, and defaming Wayne Enterprises is one more way to destroy my credibility."

Fox nodded, looking doubtful. "That's certainly one way to look at it."

"What other way is there?"

"I…" the older man shook his head. "I think I'm probably seeing things. Let me sleep on it, and I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"All right. I'll see you in the morning, then."

Bruce was halfway home when his phone rang. "Hello?" he asked, stopping at a red light, squinting against the sunset. At four o'clock in deep winter, the light was fading fast.

Alfred's tense voice said, "Sir, I can't find Master Dick anywhere."

_Not again_. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice rough.

"His outside things are all here so he can't have gone out, and he's not anywhere in the house. He's gone, sir. And so is Miss Somerville."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Fellow bat-fans, I am pleased to announce that we are now officially at the beginning of the final climax! Let the peasants rejoice! (_insert fanfare of trumpets, thunderous cheering, genial rioting, etc._)

Responses to reviews can be found on my homepage.


	39. So, if she weighs the same as a duck

**A/N** WOOHOO! 515 Reviews! Over half a thousand! Thank you, thank you O beloved reviewers!

Just a warning – it may be two weeks before the next update. I have a presentation and a paper due next week. I will do my best to get the chapter done, but in case I don't, I wanted you to be prepared :)

Thank you to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, for her quick efficiency.

**Disclaimer** The smurfs are not of my creation, however, the village of the Smurfettes are. _(Disclaimer courtesy of The Smurfette Village! By Raven Child2)_

**Chapter 38**

_Little pitchers have big ears.  
-Colloquial English Proverb_

_Friday Morning_

Dick dimly felt a gentle hand brushing across his forehead, and he got his eyes open in time to see Rachel leaving the room. He scrambled out of bed to follow her, but had to stop and sit down on the floor until the pounding in his head slowed and the black waves stopped rushing in front of his eyes. Moving more cautiously this time, he stood up and slowly went downstairs.

Alfred wasn't in the kitchen like he usually was when Dick got up in the mornings. The boy wandered down the hall, trying to ease his way into each step to avoid jarring his tender head, and it wasn't until he came to the door of Bruce's office that he found any sign of life. Bruce and Rachel were standing in front of the desk, but even though they weren't shouting, Dick could tell that they were upset. He stood silently in the doorway, watching anxiously. Rachel was crying and Bruce was talking in a low, hard voice, saying something that didn't make any sense about it not being enough.

And then Rachel said, in a voice that sounded angry, "Bruce, you can't raise a child and be Batman!"

Dick backed away from the doorway and ran. He didn't stop until he was back in the security of his own room, doubled over on his knees on top of the bed, panting harshly. It was hard to think around the pain in his head, but at last he worked Rachel's words into a meaning that made sense. If he, Dick, stayed here, Bruce would have to stop being Batman. And Bruce couldn't stop being Batman. He _couldn't_. And that meant that he, Dick, was going to have to leave.

The old pain was back now, a dull throbbing knot that settled right over his stomach and hunched his shoulders forward. Between the old pain and the new, he was almost sick, and he bit his lip hard, fighting waves of nausea.

Alfred found him that way thirty minutes later – hunched over, tensed up, and white faced. "How are you feeling this morning, Master Dick?" he asked gently.

"Not good," Dick admitted.

"I thought perhaps you might like to move into the television room," the butler suggested. "We could set you up quite comfortably on one of the sofas, and there would be more to do."

"All right," Dick agreed listlessly. With Alfred's assistance, he was soon settled in a nest of blankets on a deep leather couch, with a tray of scrambled eggs and orange juice beside him and Star Wars playing on the screen.

"Hey buddy, how you feeling?"

Dick looked up to see Bruce standing behind the couch, leaning over him. He had on a suit and a tie, so he must be going to a meeting. "Ok," the boy finally managed around the new surge of dread that rose in his throat.

"Miss Somerville and I have to go to a meeting, so you call Alfred if you need anything or if you start feeling worse, all right?"

"Ok," Dick repeated, and watched in relief as Bruce left the room without telling him he had to leave. Bruce was probably going to wait until after his meeting, Dick considered, and was suddenly determined not to wait around for it. He would rather just go on his own and get it over with. But as he knew from experience, leaving Wayne Manor was easier said than done. It was hard just to get outside the wall, and once he got out, there was the question of where he would go. It would be nice to live with Rachel, Dick thought wistfully, but then he remembered she was going to marry Bruce and come here to live, so that wouldn't work.

Worn out with pain, Dick dropped into an uneasy doze, and when he woke up, startled by a burst of blaster fire from the movie, he remembered why Miss Somerville was staying with them in the first place. _She'll take me away,_ Dick thought with a mixture of misery and relief, _if I tell her this isn't the best place for me._

Determined on this course of action, he decided he may as well go ahead and pack. Back in his room, he stuffed his blanket, the best of his homemade comic books, and the viewer box Batman had given him so long ago into his backpack. Then he dug the sleeping Rachel Jr. out of a pile of woodchips and stuck her in a half empty Kleenex box. He put a sock over the hole and secured it with rubber bands so that the gerbil couldn't escape, then poked a couple of little holes in the sides just to make sure she had enough air. He tucked the box, along with a bag of food pellets, carefully into the top of the backpack before zipping it shut. Now all he had to do was wait for Miss Somerville to come back from the meeting.

The increased activity had worsened his headache, slowing his thought processes, but the more he pondered it, the more it seemed that if Somerville and Bruce had gone to the meeting together then they would come back together, and he might not get a chance to talk to the social worker before Bruce talked to _him_. And that, Dick was somehow convinced, would be the worst thing of all.

He put on his sneakers and coat and crept down the stairs, backpack in hand. It was an easy matter to slip out the side door into the secure garage where none of the cars were kept locked. He opened the backdoor of Somerville's battered Chevy and settled himself on the floor out of sight below the windows. It was rather chilly, but there was a blanket on the seat, so, using the part of the backpack that didn't hold Rachel Jr. as a pillow, he pulled the blanket over his head and fell asleep.

- - - - - -

Cecilia paid the taxi and ran into the house. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth," she greeted the butler who held the door for her and helped her off with her coat. "How is Richard?"

"Sleeping the last time I checked on him. He's been rather quiet today."

"I'm sure. Did Wayne call and tell you the hearing went well?"

"He did, thank you, Miss Somerville."

Cecilia went upstairs to her room. _I need to call Miami. I need my phone_. Kicking herself for not having asked Gordon about it yesterday, she grabbed the room's extension and tapped in the password (discovered while poking around Wayne's computer files yesterday) followed by the number for the Gotham PD. "Hello? Yes, this is Cecilia Somerville. My cell phone is being held as evidence in the Simon Golding case, and I was wondering if there was any possibility of my getting it back."

The receptionist put her on hold, and she got five minutes worth of tinny jazz before the woman was back. "Ms. Somerville, your phone was delivered to your office this afternoon."

"Social services?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." She hung up, frowning in irritation. There was no call log and no incriminating numbers saved on the phone, but if Judas had gotten hold of her phone, she might have a hard time getting it back. Her growing annoyance reminded her of another piece of personal property she had yet to regain – the Batman was still in possession of her Beretta. There was nothing she could do about the second item, but she was most decidedly not going to endure another night handicapped by the loss of her cell. She picked up the phone and notified the garage to have her car sent around.

When she pulled into the building parking lot, the sun was setting fast. Cecilia slammed her door shut and hurried across the slush-smeared pavement into the office. On a late Friday afternoon, the building was quiet, with most people already having taken off for the weekend. Cecilia took a straight path to her cubicle, and exhaled a quiet breath of relief when she saw the manila envelope waiting on her desk. She tore it open and dumped the phone out – it didn't appear to have been tampered with.

"Ah, Cecilia?" Another social worker, a pudgy white woman with her brown hair wound in a sloppy bun, stood in the cubicle entrance. "There's someone here looking for you." She stepped back to reveal a slender blond boy with a pale face.

"Richard?" Cecilia asked in disbelief. "I…thank you, Kathleen."

The other woman smiled and walked away, and Cecilia demanded, "Richard, what are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"I was in the back of your car. You have to take me away," he said in a quiet, resigned little voice.

"What…"

She broke off as the waves of Judas's distinctive voice rolled over the cubicles. "Yes, yes, that will be fine."

Cecilia grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him toward the desk. Jerking the wheeled chair back, she hustled him into the space and whispered harshly, "Stay in there and be quiet." Shoving the chair back into place, she perched on the edge of the desk so that her body blocked the view into the space beneath it. Richard safely locked up in Wayne Manor would have taken a court order to reach. Richard here in the open could be snatched, judge's ruling or not. _Wayne really is going to ship my body to the Gulf of Mexico_.

"Miss Somerville, you _are_ here."

Cecilia had never before been overjoyed to see Rachel Dawes, but at the moment she could have embraced the woman like a long lost sister. "Counselor Dawes, what an unexpected pleasure. Listen…"

Rachel cut her off. "I'm here to tell you that I'll give you testimony, whatever you need, to get Dick out of Wayne Manor."

Cecilia stared at her, momentarily stunned.

"He can't stay with Bruce. Yesterday convinced me of that. I know you've been living there for almost two weeks, but believe me when I tell you that there are things that go on at that house that even the people who work there don't know about."

"Ah, Rachel, I see you've found her. Cecilia, I wanted to apologize for this afternoon. It was unforgivable." Judas looked at her pleadingly, and she noticed that his skin was so pale it looked almost gray. "It's only that I'd become so worried about the boy. I'd gotten information, you see, but not through channels that would hold up in front of the judge."

"I see," she said slowly.

"It's absolutely imperative we get him out of there immediately. Kathleen says you have him here with you now?"

There wasn't any point in denying it. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "He just went to the bathroom."

Judas looked relieved, eager, a sudden rush of color coming back to his face. "I'll just go and collect him, then. We can sort it out with Judge Farr later."

"I'll come with you," Cecilia said hastily, and she and Rachel followed Judas down the hallway to the men's room.

"I'll just check on him," the man said hastily, and pushed through the door.

Cecilia grabbed Rachel's arm. "Listen to me. Judas cannot be trusted."

Rachel shook herself free. "That's convincing. Coming from _you_."

"If you could forget about the past and your precious dignity for one moment and open your eyes to see that…"

Judas burst out of the bathroom. "He's not in there."

Cecilia allowed alarm to cover her face. "What?"

"You said he went to the bathroom," Rachel accused.

"He did, I…" She paused, alarm melting into horror. "You don't think…the Joker could have gotten in here and grabbed him?"

Judas jerked, fear covering his face, apparently accepting her suggestion without hesitation. "It's possible."

"Let's not panic. Maybe he just got lost on his way back. Counselor Dawes, you check down that way. Henry, try the back of the building. I'll look through the cubicles."

The other two obeyed her without question. Cecilia waited until she was sure they were well away before returning to her cubicle and pulling out the desk chair. "Hurry, Richard," she whispered as he crawled out. "We have to get back to the Manor." Grasping his hand in her own, she pulled him hurriedly down the narrow aisle and out into the lobby.

The parking lot was empty of people. Cecilia ran toward her car, pulling Richard behind her. Two feet away, she slipped on a patch of ice, and let go of the boy's hand to keep from pulling him down with her. She landed hard on her knees, and as she scrambled to get back up something hard jabbed into the small of her back, throwing her back off balance.

"Don't move Cecilia," Judas said softly. "I wouldn't mind shooting you, but there's a certain gentleman who'd be sorry not to have the pleasure himself. Now get up slowly and unlock the car.

She obeyed, turning slightly as she did and catching sight of Richard, his arm held tightly in Judas's large hand.

Judas suddenly transferred the gun from her back to Richard's temple. "Now get in and start the engine," he ordered. "The boy and I will ride in the back. I don't think I have to tell you what will happen if you try anything stupid."

- - - - - -

A horn blared behind Bruce, and he realized the light had turned green. His foot slammed down on the accelerator, and he roared through the intersection, quickly reaching, and passing, the speed limit.

"Alfred," he said with forced calm, "do you know whether he's dressed?"

"Yes, sir, his pajamas were on the floor of his room."

"Check the closet and see if any of his shoes are missing."

"Which shoes?"

"Any shoes!" Bruce snapped, shooting through a gap between a bus and a semi-truck. He exited the highway onto the road that led to the manor, the miles only creeping by despite his speed.

"Yes," Alfred said at last. "A pair of trainers is gone."

"Thank God," Bruce muttered sincerely.

"Shall I call the police?"

"Not yet. Go downstairs and open the computer system. I'll be there in five minutes."

It was exactly five minutes later when he arrived in the study, yanked the books away and opened the panel to access the elevator. In the caves, Alfred was sitting in front of the glowing computer monitors, but he stood up hastily and let Bruce take the chair.

The billionaire hastily clicked through programs until he found the one he wanted. A grid map appeared on the screen, and a tiny bright dot moved across one corner of it. "There," Bruce muttered. "He's gotta be in a car."

"You put homing devices in his shoes," Alfred realized.

"Right after this happened the last time. Didn't I mention this to you?"

"No, sir."

"Sorry." Bruce crossed to the cabinet and pulled out the Bat suit. "You'll have to stay here and track his progress," he explained as he strapped on the armor. "I don't have the program hooked up in the Tumbler yet."

"Of course," Alfred agreed, already manipulating the map to show where Dick had been. "Sir…ten minutes ago he was at the social services building."

"Surprise, surprise," Bruce muttered, swinging the cape over his shoulders. "Do you know when Somerville left here?"

"The garage said they brought her car out about an hour ago." Alfred clicked back through the recent history file. "And yes, that matches Dick's departure from the Manor."

Bruce silently fitted the cowl onto his head and climbed into the Tumbler.

"They're headed south, on three sixty-four," Alfred's voice came over the radio connection.

The Batmobile shot through the waterfall and disappeared into the darkening twilight.

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N **Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage.

Remember: Reviews help all authors to write faster, even authors who have papers and presentations they _should_ be working on instead. ;)


	40. It means she's a witch!

**A/N** Woot! The presentation ended up being not that big of a deal, and my paper is almost finished! I have to touch up a couple of paragraphs and write the introduction and conclusion (gag!), but the worst is over. It's not actually due until Wednesday, but I have an appointment with the Writing Center tomorrow. (And, as a new composition teacher, let me take this moment to urge you that if you attend a school with a Writing Center, take advantage of it! Even if you're a very strong writer, it's always helpful to know how your work sounds to someone else before you submit it. dismounts from soap box) Of course, I was about ready to murder myself when I discovered halfway through the paper that I'd been structuring for a 7-8 page essay, when it was only supposed to be 4 pages. (I actually used the phrase "quintuple crap." It didn't relieve my feelings much, supporting my conclusion that profanity is, in the main, not all it's cracked up to be.) But enough about my academic woes and on to the chapter!

Thank you to IcyWaters, my bat-beta _par excellence_.

**Disclaimer** The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy belongs to the late Douglas Noel Adams. May he rest in peace. Or pieces, as the case may be.

(_Disclaimer courtesy of The Worst Poems Ever by Anakin McFly_)

**Chapter 39**

_The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God – a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that – and he must be about His Father's business…_

_- The Great Gatsby_

Paul Cordelia was a sixteen-year-old junior at Saint Theresa of Avila Gotham High School. He played trumpet in band, occasionally wrote for the school paper, and got steady B's, except in English where he usually managed to scrape up an A. He had even, for the first time in his high school career, convinced a girl to go with him to the Winter Wonderland dance, a triumph he was beginning to regret. Keishe Baker looked good in her spangled blue dress, but that was all she did. She didn't talk, didn't dance, didn't even drink punch. In fact, Paul was beginning to think he would have had more fun if he'd brought his sister's doll to the dance (plus, he wouldn't have had to buy Barbie a ticket).

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" he asked for the fifth time.

Keishe just smiled – she had a great smile – and shook her head.

Paul sighed audibly, remembering that he could be earning extra credit for English at a downtown coffee house that was sponsoring an international poetry night. Mr. Jay had strongly recommended the event, even hinting darkly that students who preferred pointless social activities to artistically stimulating ones had only faint chances of being accepted into a university. Paul wondered whether Keishe would mind looking good while doing nothing at a coffee shop instead of a dance. He was just about to ask her when the clowns showed up.

- - - - - -

Gordon picked up his desk phone. "Hello?"

"Jim, thank heaven! I've been trying to reach you for two hours!" Barbara's agitated voice came over the line. "Have you called Carl yet?"

Gordon winced. He'd been half expecting her to call, since he'd seen the news about Wayne Enterprises. Babsie's college money was sunk in Enterprises stock, and ever since Bruce Wayne had returned and burned down his ancestral home, Barbara had been suggesting that they sell out and invest in something safer. "We're not going to panic," Gordon told his wife.

"James! The company's under federal investigation! Before long they'll freeze everything, and then we'll go down with the ship!"

"The company's going to be fine. Listen, the police are in on this too, and there are a lot of things about this so-called evidence of fraud that are awfully suspicious. We're not selling," he said obstinately. Privately, though, he couldn't suppress a niggle of doubt as to whether his stubbornness really arose from confidence in the company's solidity, or if it was because, in some illogical way, selling out would feel like betraying an orphaned little boy whose tear stained face had haunted him for twenty-odd years.

Officer Fiskers burst through the office door. "Lieutenant," he gasped, "the Joker's resurfaced. And he's got a whole school full of kids hostage."

"Dear God," Gordon prayed, forgetting he still held the phone.

"What?" Barbara asked.

"Emergency, babe, I've gotta go. I'm not sure when I'll be home." He dropped the phone and headed for the door.

- - - - - -

Cecilia forced herself to keep her grip on the wheel relaxed, as she sped through the snowplowed streets in obedience to Judas's directions. In her rearview mirror, she could see Dick, stiff and silent in the backseat with the muzzle of the gun pressed against his ribs.

The route they followed seemed to be straightforward, with no evasive maneuvers – apparently their captor wasn't concerned about being followed. Reasonably so, Cecilia thought grimly, constantly but hopelessly watching the traffic around them for a sign of friendly pursuit. Even if Rachel figured out what had happened, by the time an APB was issued to the city's police, they would probably be at their destination.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes after they had pulled out of the social services building parking lot, Judas ordered her to swing into a low income subdivision, filled with neat rows of cookie cutter housing that looked like it had been built back in the fifties. It had probably been created to house the workers for the factory whose smokeless chimneys overshadowed the tiny houses. The house she was ordered to stop in front of was separated from a vast, deserted parking lot only by a rusting fence.

Judas retransferred the gun from Richard to Cecilia and marched her up the walk to the front door, dragging the boy along by the arm. Cecilia knocked on command, and a moment later the door was opened by a slender young man with dark hair and olive skin. He surveyed them expressionlessly, then stepped back to allow them to enter.

"Will you tell…_him_ we're here?" Judas asked as the door shut behind them.

The stranger nodded and disappeared through a side door, leaving them crowded in the narrow hallway. The house appeared as shabby inside as it was outside. The carpet was worn and stained and the white paint was yellowing. There was a print of "Portrait of a Young Girl Reading" on the wall and, surreally, the smell of baking bread permeated the air.

The young man reappeared in the doorway and nodded at Judas. "He's in the office. Take them through the tunnel."

Judas increased his pressure on the gun against Cecilia's back and she obediently moved forward.

"Through the door at the end of the hall," he muttered tersely.

The door revealed a flight of narrow wooden stairs that led down into a tiny basement half filled with a groaning furnace. Judas corralled his prisoners into a corner nearly blocked off by the furnace and spoke. "It's Henry. I've got the woman and the boy."

The cinderblock wall in front of Cecilia parted soundlessly. A lit tunnel stretched before them, its end hidden by a turn nearly a hundred feet away. The turn proved to be only slight, and the tunnel continued unbroken for the length of a football field before ending in a steel door. They must be under the factory, Cecilia thought.

The fact that Judas had made no effort to conceal their destination or even the entrance to the tunnel was unsettling. It indicated that he didn't expect her to be leaving. And Richard… _They can't kill Richard, _she assured herself. _They need him_.

There was a keypad next to the door, but it clicked as they approached and needed only a pull to open. They crossed through into a conspiracy theorist's dream world - banks of monitors, regiments of filing cabinets, yellowed reams of printouts spilling off of dusty desks.

They met another man who reminded her of the one who had opened the house door for them. This one was taller and African, but he had that same controlled expression of emptiness. "Gatsby wants to see you," he said coldly. "Leave the woman and the boy here."

Judas swallowed nervously and at last took the gun away from Cecilia's back. He stalked over to a door in the wall and opened it. A brief beam of a different, softer light flowed out as he slipped into the room beyond.

"Sit down," their new guard said softly. He didn't have a visible weapon, but from the way he held himself in quiet readiness, Cecilia had no illusions about being able to escape. Even if she and the boy could outrun him, she wouldn't know where to go.

Cecilia took Richard's hand, warm in her own, and led him toward two straight chairs that stood beside a desk. For the first time since they had left the car, she was able to really look at him. He sat very still, and there was a small wrinkle of pain between his eyes.

"How's your head?" she asked softly.

He shrugged, a minuscule shift of his shoulders. "Okay."

- - - - - -

"Sir, the car has stopped," Alfred's voice said in his ear. "In a low income subdivision called Rolling Acres."

"I know where it is." He was traveling on the perimeter of the city, sticking to minor highways that were less likely to be backed up with traffic at this time of day. He was still fifteen minutes away when Alfred spoke again.

"He's leaving the subdivision, but on foot. He's crossing the property of a neighboring manufacturing complex."

"What kind?"

"Purisol Bottled Water. But it's been shut down for nearly twenty years – since the height of the recession."

He stowed the Tumbler in the shadow of a freeway overpass within sight of the factory, blessing the murky winter darkness. Alfred's report was that the signal had been stationary for ten minutes now. He moved silently through the night, across the vast and empty parking lot, avoiding the two security lights that were somehow still functional.

On the side of the building that read closest to the coordinates from the satellite signal, there was no ground level entrance. But halfway up the wall, he could just see the gleam of a window pane. Using his grappling gun, he propelled himself thirty feet off the ground until he dangled by the glass. The window was unlocked, and it took less that a minute for him to raise the sash and silently drop into the room. Inside it was pitch black, and he activated his infrared vision enhancer. The room had apparently once been an office, but all that now remained was an ancient filing cabinet and a bulletin board.

He crossed the floor and silently eased open the door. It opened onto a wide walkway that ran around the perimeter of the open factory floor that was still cluttered with machinery. There was no movement anywhere, and no sign of life. He moved swiftly away to the right until the coordinates on his GPS matched to a fraction of a degree the ones Alfred had read off to him. There was nothing there. He had to go down.

- - - - - -

Judas reappeared. "He wants to see them," the old man said, and hurried back the way they had come, toward the tunnel exit.

"Come," the guard ordered. Still holding Richard's hand, Cecilia followed him to the door in the wall and went through it when he opened it.

Her first impression after she stepped over the threshold was that of light. Soft, golden, and warm, it seemed to flow through the room, caressing polished surfaces and nestling down onto plush fabrics. The predominant colors were blue and ivory, the wood was dark mahogany, and the whole effect was one of quiet harmony.

It was only after looking at the room that she transferred her attention to the man behind the desk. He was slender and pale, with thinning mouse brown hair, and he watched her with open curiosity. "We've met before," she realized. "Mr. Jay, wasn't it? Teacher of high school English?" She suddenly remembered the name their taciturn guard outside had used. "Jay…Gatsby?"

"An English teacher sort of thing to do, don't you think?" He stood up from his chair and came around the desk. "Miss Somerville, I can't tell you how delighted I am to welcome you here." He extended his left hand.

"Please," she said with only a hint of dryness, "call me Cecilia."

"And you too, Richard," Gatsby said. "I've heard so much about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He offered his hand, but the boy just glared up hostilely, his shoulders stiff.

"Richard was in an accident yesterday," Cecilia said, "and he's still under the weather. Do you have something I could give him for his headache?"

"Yes, of course, do sit down." Gatsby walked back behind the desk and picked up the phone. "Atuan? Would you kindly send in some mild painkillers? Thank you." He hung up the receiver.

"That's quite the mausoleum you have outside," Cecilia remarked, settling comfortably into the depths of her chair.

"Yes. The remains of a project that was unsuccessfully terminated some years ago, I'm afraid."

She cocked her head curiously. "What sort of project?"

"Now that would be telling," he said casually, picking up a silver letter opener and gently flexing its slender blade as they spoke.

"What harm could it do to satisfy my curiosity? You said the project was finished some time ago, and since you're going to kill me anyway…"

Gatsby smiled. "A woman after my own heart. The objective pursuit of knowledge before all else. It's a pity, really. If we had met earlier, under different circumstances, I think we would have worked well together. I like competent people."

"Why only in the past?" she asked quietly. "Why not now?"

His smile deepened. "Cecilia, are you actually offering to switch sides?"

She shrugged delicately. "I believe in compromise. And I'm fond of breathing. Almost addicted to it, one might say."

Gatsby shook his head. "Even if you meant that as more than a ploy to gain time, it's not that simple. It's not a matter of switching sides. Cecilia my dear, you and I are already fighting on the same side."

Her eyebrows twitched upward. "You're quite sure of that?"

"It's a matter of switching not allegiances but methodologies. Have you ever noticed that people don't care all that much who they are allied with as long as they can continue doing the same things they've always done?"

"Jay, are you accusing me of being an old dog who can't learn new tricks?"

"I would never call you an old dog. And it's true that even in method we are alike. You are clever, devious, ruthless… But you are not absolutely ruthless. There is a vein of weakness in you, and one day, under the right pressure, you would crack and fall short of doing what is necessary."

There was a soft knock at the door, and the African guard entered, carrying a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol. He set them on the desk and left again. Cecilia shook out one of the pills and offered it and the glass to Richard. He refused to accept them, but sat motionless, scowling darkly at her. _Traitor,_ his silent glare accused.

"Just take it, Richard," she ordered impatiently. "You'll be able to think more clearly."

Grudgingly, he took the medicine and water, careful not to touch her hands while he did it.

"Why are we here?" Cecilia asked abruptly.

"You set me back quite seriously in Colombia, my dear. And I really couldn't let you get away with that."

"You were Morales's buyer," she said slowly.

"Employer might be a more apt description. I had my own agents down there of course, but by the time they discovered who you were and tipped off Morales, the damage had been done. You're a dangerous woman, Cecilia Somerville, and that's not a compliment I pay lightly."

"I'm flattered."

He ignored her sarcasm and continued, "That's why I had Judas invite you to Gotham. I couldn't afford to let you continue running around uncontained. And you were useful to me here."

"I'm so happy to have been of service."

Her comment won a smile from Gatsby. "I wish I could say it has earned you an easy way out, but someone else has requested otherwise, and I saw no reason to refuse him. In fact…" He glanced at his watch. "I suppose I had better call him. I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed this chance to finally speak with you, but time, I am afraid, is pressing." He set down the letter opener and picked up the phone. "Atuan? Tell Señor Morales he may come and collect his prisoners."

"Richard too?" she asked sharply as he hung up the phone.

"I have no further need for him, and Carlos asked specifically that he be allowed to…wrap things up."

Cecilia straightened up in her chair. "The formula exists, you know. And it will be much harder to obtain without a live boy as a bargaining chip."

Gatsby laughed, a light, breathy sound of amusement. "It's so kind of you to look out for my interests, Cecilia, and I have no doubt you are right. Mr. Earle will be disappointed. It was he, you know, who brought the matter to my attention. But you can't still believe that I have expended so much effort and expense for the sake of a formula no one was certain existed. This isn't about the Graysons. It never was."

Cecilia lunged across the desk, her left hand seizing the letter opener and plunging toward Gatsby's heart. He grabbed her wrist and stood as he jerked her fully across the desk and hurled her to the floor. "That was a foolish…" He broke off as a heavy glass paperweight thrown by Richard smashed against his temple. He faltered, and Cecilia tackled him around the knees. She reached for the paperweight to use as a weapon, but as her fingers closed around it, the all too familiar feel of cold steel pressed against her neck.

"If you move, Richard, I will shoot her," Gatsby said softly.

From the corner of her eye Cecilia could see the boy standing a mere two feet away, the letter opener gripped in his fist.

The door to the office swung open and Carlos Morales, followed by two burly men dressed in black, came into the room.

"Señor Gatsby!" he exclaimed in alarm. "Are you hurt?"

Gatsby reached up and wiped a trickle of blood away from his temple. "My own fault. I underestimated young Mr. Grayson."

One of the thugs moved forward and snatched the letter opener out of Richard's hand, then grabbed him by the upper arm and forced him to stand on tiptoe. The other came around the desk and roughly hauled Cecilia to her feet.

"Querida Señorita Cecilia," Morales murmured. "Que gran placer a verte otra vez."

"Carlos, remember…" Gatsby broke off as the muffled roar of an explosion shook the room, causing everyone to stagger. He glanced at his watch. "I see the games have begun on schedule. Carlos, remember that I want the bodies in one piece, and it would be well if you could finish within the hour."

"Por supuesto, Señor." Morales gestured impatiently to the door. "Let us depart."

The phone on Gatsby's desk rang as they filed out of the room. He picked it up. "Yes, Atuan? The Lieutenant is here? By all means, send him in."

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N** I'm afraid review responses for the last chapter will be coming individually by e-mail, throughout the week as I have time. But don't let that stop you from reviewing this one! Thanks so much for the great response to the last chapter. It was very encouraging :D


	41. Burn the witch! x2

**A/N** I'm sorry this is a shorter chapter than usual, but the next set of sequences need to come together and they add up to their own chapter. 19 days until The Prestige comes out! Yay!

Thank you to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, who was particularly helpful with some rough edges on this one.

**Disclaimer** Rock-a-Doodle is not my creation.  
(_Disclaimer courtesy of Stormbringer by Ellery Nocturne_)

**Chapter 40 (!)**

_The worst is not so long as we can say "This is the worst."  
- King Lear_

_Slightly earlier that evening…_

"A dance at five o'clock in the afternoon?" Gordon demanded as they sped through the streets, siren screaming.

"It's a conservative school. All official functions have to be over by ten o'clock. Anyway, in this part of town, you want your kids home by ten, if you know what I mean," Fiskers responded.

Even with the help of the lights and siren, it was some minutes before they made it through rush hour traffic. The entrances of the school parking lot were cordoned off, and the entire building was surrounded by squad cars.

Gordon jumped out of Fiskers's vehicle and ran up to Captain Stark. "What's the situation?"

"There's over two hundred kids in there. One girl was in the bathroom when it happened and climbed out the window, which was how we knew what was going on. They've got a megaphone in there, and they shouted that they'd start shooting students if we came any closer. They did that to emphasize their point."

Gordon followed Stark's pointing finger and saw a windshield decorated with a bullet hole. "No demands?"

"Not yet."

There was the sudden blare of a bullhorn and then an amplified voice crackled over the parking lot. "Esteemed members of Gotham's police force, it has come to our attention that Lieutenant Gordon is now on the premises. If the good lieutenant would kindly come to the front door, we have a few requests we'd like him to convey to the rest of you. If Lieutenant Gordon is not here in five minutes, something very unpleasant is going to happen to a young woman named Keishe Baker."

Gordon and Stark exchanged glances, and then the lieutenant began unbuckling his shoulder holster. "I've got a vest in the car," muttered the captain, popping open his trunk. Gordon strapped the bullet resistant panels around his chest. "Be careful, Jim. I won't be able face Barbara if anything happens to you."

Gordon nodded and ran toward the entrance of the school.

- - - - - -

After double checking that the walkway railing was solid, Batman secured his grappling hook over it and swiftly lowered himself down the two stories to the factory floor. As his boots settled on the cement and he released the hook, a sudden explosion ripped apart the walkway above him. He dove toward the center of the room, feeling bits of debris rattle off his suit as a continuous series of explosions around the building signaled that the whole second level was destroyed. As the last reverberations of the blasts faded, the bright tones of circus music jangled through the dusty haze.

He crouched beside a piece of machinery, waiting, but aside from the music, a tinny, eight bar melody that repeated endlessly, there was no other sound or evidence of inhabitation. Cautiously, he moved away from his shelter, and as he did, the plate of sheeting on the side of the machine gave way with a soft groan of metal. He lunged forward, just escaping the edge of it as it thundered down, cutting off the way he had come. Again he crouched in the shadows; again there was nothing but the music as the echoes of the crash died away. He began creeping toward his left instead of moving closer to the middle of the room but had only gone a few steps when the concrete under his feet suddenly cracked and gave way. Only a desperate leap saved him from falling.

He retraced his steps and tried going to the right, and discovered the same problem with the floor. He was being driven inward; someone appeared to have been waiting for him for a very long time.

There were three choices – he could keep trying to fight his way back out, braving an unknown number of traps and giving away his position with every one he set off; he could stay where he was and hope to ambush whoever came after him; or he could go in faster and harder than they expected.

He charged forward, vaulting over a low conveyor belt and ducking under the lowered arm of an ancient forklift. Behind him, a series of belated crashes began, and he guessed that going back now was absolutely impossible. A tall partition rose in front of him, with a low doorway in its middle. The floor beneath his feet vibrated, and he leaped through the doorway just as the entire section of concrete gave way.

Light sprang to life, thousands of watts worth, multiplied a million times against the maze of mirrors he now stood in. Lifting a gauntleted hand to shield his smarting eyes, he ran, half blindly, buying time until his eyes adjusted to the glare. He smashed his fist against a mirror as he rounded a corner. The glass cracked but the wall held, surprisingly sturdy for a temporary structure. His mind mapped as he ran, and by the time his eyes could tolerate the light, he knew he had covered the entire structure. There was no exit other than the one he had come in by, but in the center was a square not accessible by any of the short corridors. He reached into his belt and withdrew five capsules, and with quick flicks of his wrist tossed four of them into the air, over the tops of the ten-foot walls. The fifth he tossed to the ground by his own feet, and within moments the mirrored mouse maze was filled with choking black smoke – thirty precious seconds of darkness in which to act. Holding his forearms up to protect his face, he crashed through the walls, slivers of glass flying around him, until he broke through to the inner box.

The music stopped. The square was empty except for a speaker on a low stool that stood on top of a door.

"I had hoped you would take a little more time to appreciate my handiwork," the Joker said, his high-pitched voice crackling out of the speaker. "I spent a lot of time on it." He sounded aggrieved. "However, here you are, and that's the important thing. I suppose you're wondering what I want." There was an expectant pause from the speaker, but Batman made no response. He had shifted the stool and speaker and was examining the door, which appeared to be locked from beneath.

"I'm supposed to be killing you, of course," the Joker continued, "and I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy it, you didn't exactly do me any favors during our little encounter at the chemical plant, but it wasn't my idea, and I do so _hate_ using other people's ideas. Who's idea was it?" he asked, apparently having decided the dark knight wasn't going to hold up his end of the conversation. "It was Gatsby's idea, just like my face was Gatsby's idea. I don't like Gatsby's ideas."

Batman shoved a small explosive into the crack over the door latch. "Gatsby?" he finally rasped.

The disembodied voice took on tones of patronage. "My dear bat, this is Gatsby's show from start to finish. He owns this town. His people are everywhere. And _you_ seem to have become something of a thorn in his flesh, so he brought me in for the job, which, I flatter myself, proves that he doesn't underestimate you. No doubt you're wondering why I don't just get on with killing you? To be quite honest, I'm not certain that I can. You got through the maze a lot faster than I thought you would, and I am consequently not as far away as I had planned to be. I dare say you could find me if you tried."

The explosive went off, leaving a hole in the side of the door where the lock used to be. Batman pulled it up to reveal a low crawl space that descended into darkness. It looked as if it had once been a large drain.

"Or you could go through that door you just opened and kill Gatsby, which is something that would make us equally happy. We can finish our own business at a more convenient time. Either way, that maze is going to blow up in five seconds, and while I don't think it…"

He dropped into the hole and pulled the door shut over his head.

- - - - - -

Morales led them back through the project graveyard to a set of narrow stairs that wound up and up. Cecilia and Richard's captors propelled them onwards with narrow rifle muzzles, while intermittent explosions echoed through the stairwell. At last they exited onto the roof of the building – flat and uninteresting except where the smokestacks jutted up out of the concrete.

Another man met them, well bundled against the freezing night. He produced a rope, and at Morales's curt command tightly lashed Cecilia's hands together behind her back, all the while under the watchful guns of the other two thugs.

Morales stepped closer, his bright eyes intent on her face. "It took me many hours of laborious thought to devise an adequate punishment for you, Señorita," he said. "Fortunately, you yourself provided the answer."

She forced a half smile. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me. After all, it was just business. Nothing personal."

"You misunderstand me. I am not speaking about the business, but about my granddaughter. Do you remember Samara, Señorita? You should. You murdered her."

_Samuel burst back into the office, something cupped in his two hands. "Abuelo, this will frighten her," he promised, and transferred the white mouse to his grandfather's possession._

"_You are afraid of mice, Señorita?" He didn't need to ask. The moment the creature had appeared, her eyes had fixed on it, focused despite their glaze of pain. Genuine and uncontrolled panic suffused her face, and she shrank back against Alberto who held her roughly by the shoulder._

"_Give me your hand," Morales ordered, moving forward._

_She whimpered and tried to move back, eyes darting back and forth like a cornered fox._

"_Alberto, use your pistola to ask Señorita Perez to give me her hand."_

_Keeping one arm locked around her chest, Alberto obediently pulled his gun from his waistband._

_The office door slammed open._

_She didn't know that it was opened by a little girl who was angry because her brother had taken "Mees Meennee" without permission. She only knew that there was a wavering in their attention, creating a brief moment between her own pain and fear in which to act. She twisted, grabbing for the gun. There was an explosion._

_And Samara lay on the carpet, the scarlet bubbling softly from her chest._

Cecilia closed her eyes. "I didn't murder her."

"She is dead by your fault. In Colombia, we call that murder." He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her over to the edge of the roof, while one of his companions balanced a sturdy board so that half of it stuck over the side of the building. Morales shoved her onto the end of the wood so that her weight held it in place. "Bring me the boy," he called and another of the guards shifted his rifle to one hand and hauled Richard to the edge. Richard tried to kick him, and the man struck him on the right side of his face. Morales grabbed the dazed boy and shook him. "If you do that again, mocoso, we will shoot her." He jerked the boy's red backpack off and tossed it to one of the guards, then lifted Richard and set him sideways on the opposite end of the board, the part of the wood that stuck out over the parking lot. "Don't worry, Ricardo, you won't fall. Not as long as la señorita holds down her end of the bargain. But if you move, this man," he gestured to one of the armed guards, "will shoot her. Do you understand?" Without waiting for a response, he turned away and walked back to Cecilia.

"There must be something that you want," she offered desperately.

"Nothing," he said simply. "Nothing but to know that for the next thirty minutes you will suffer."

"Only thirty minutes?"

"In media hora you will be dead. I do not presume to know whether you will suffer after that or not. Until then, you have the freedom of the roof. You may stay with the boy or not, as you choose."

The man who had met them on the roof approached, holding a small box. Morales opened it and with a quick snatch, caught the mouse by the scruff of its neck and held it up. "Interesting how all white mice look the same."

"Hey look at this!" The guard who had been given Richard's backpack had unzipped it and investigated the contents. Now he held up a struggling Rachel Jr.

Morales smiled. "Do not scorn that which heaven sends." He took the gerbil and held it in the same hand as the mouse, so that the two animals were cruelly pressed together. "Do not move. It would be a pity to commit a mortal sin when you will have no chance for confession." He tore open the collar of the shirt she wore beneath her suit jacket and thrust the rodents inside her clothing so that their furry bodies writhed against her skin.

"Adios, Señorita Cecilia."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** I just realized… I responded to the wrong lot of reviews. I was supposed to be responding for two chapters ago, and I responded to last chapter. smacks self on forehead I am such a ding-bat. (A very different thing from a hero-bat.)

Ok, here's what we're gonna do: Instead of writing responses for those now quite old reviews (reviews are kind of like chocolate chip cookies – they're best responded to when fresh out of the oven), I will write a piece of fluff and post it by the end of tonight. Is this a fair trade for one chapter's worth of review responses?

Also, if there is anyone who did not get a response for their review to Chapter 39/#40, please let me know. If there were any burning questions in your Chapter 38/#39 review, please repeat them in your review for this chapter so that I can answer them. Everybody clear? Any questions? Good.


	42. Who's on first?

**A/N** I am so glad last week is over with! Conferences mostly went well, so not bad for a first try, I hope!

Thank you to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, whose breadth of knowledge is invaluable.

This chapter is dedicated to my ex-roommate and her very bad day with the daycare hamsters.

**Disclaimer** Can you believe it? The IDEA isn't even my own. That's just own pathetic I am.

(_Disclaimer courtesy of The New and Improved Hermione Granger by chemqueen)_

**Acknowledgment** I haven't done one of these in a while, but at this point I really need to acknowledge Dorothy Dunnett, all time master of the chess metaphor and permanent sculptor of my imaginative habits. (She wrote the series this week's quote is taken from.)

**Chapter 41**

"_It seems to me," said Roxelana Sultán, "that this nation has become embroiled in a private feud between two masters: a feud which has been played like a game: falsehood within falsehood and guile within guile. I propose that what has begun as a game, entangling as puppets who knows how many innocent as well as the guilty, should end in like fashion."_

_- Pawn in Frankincense_

When Gordon pushed through the front door of the school, he was met by two men dressed in black with white painted faces and silver wigs. They unceremoniously slammed him against the wall and frisked him for weapons before tying his hands in front of him and blindfolding him with a colorful silk scarf.

"I thought I was here for ransom demands," he protested, and a second scarf was tied across his mouth, effectively gagging him.

One of clowns grabbed his arm and led him, stumbling through a door and down a flight of stairs, to a place that was full of metallic groans and reeked of must. They passed through another door (he knew because he tripped over the sill) and into an area that was freezing and echoing. A minute in a straight line, then he was shoved to the ground and forced to struggle awkwardly forward on his knees with one guard pushing and one pulling him through what was apparently a very low aperture. They were outside now; he could feel the wind biting at his cheekbones and hear the purring engine of a motor vehicle. Metal clanged behind him as he was hauled to his feet. A car door opened and he was thrust onto upholstery that smelled of cigarettes and French fry grease.

They drove for what felt like hours, but what Gordon estimated was actually ten to fifteen minutes. Then he was hauled back out of the car and propelled across an uneven surface to an indoor environment that was only fractionally warmer than outside. As the door shut behind them, an explosion reverberated through the walls, and the guard who had his hand on Gordon's shoulder tightened his grip convulsively.

"We've brought the cop," one of his escorts said.

"I'll let him know you're here," another man responded. There was the click of a phone being lifted, and the same voice said, "Lieutenant Gordon is here." The phone was hung back up and the caller said, "I'll take him down. You two wait here. It won't be long."

A light hand was laid on his arm and the cold muzzle of gun was placed against his neck. "This way, please, Lieutenant."

He was led, more efficiently this time, across the room and down a flight of stairs - a very long flight of stairs. They crossed seven or eight small landings, but Gordon lost track of the exact number when he stumbled and fell onto one of them. His guide hauled him smoothly back to his feet, giving not the slightest opportunity for struggle or escape.

They at last reached the bottom. A sharp turn, the sound of a door latch clicking open, and a wave of warm air that carried scents of leather and liquor washed over him.

"Atuan, do help the Lieutenant sit down," a new voice from inside the room said. "And take off his blindfold.

Gordon allowed himself to be led forward, and he obediently sat when a chair was pushed against his knees. The scarf was pulled off his eyes, and he squinted in pain. A bright light was shining directly into his face, and even after his eyes adjusted, he never caught a clear glimpse of the shadowed man behind the desk.

"Lieutenant Gordon, I must apologize for the rough and ready treatment, but I required a personal interview with you, and I wasn't certain how else to persuade you to come." The voice was quiet, cultured, and evenly pitched. Gordon failed to feel comforted.

"You're welcome to drop by the station anytime," he snapped.

"Not to cast any disparagement upon the police department, but we both know there are certain drawbacks to having private conversations there."

Gordon flexed his fingers, wishing that the rope, which bound his wrists, were just a bit looser. "So are you going to tell me what we have to do to get you to take your psychos off those kids?"

"Ah, that, I am afraid is out of my hands. The…gentlemen…you refer to are actually under the direction of a colleague of mine. I wished to speak to you about a different matter."

"Well?" demanded Gordon when the moment grew too long for his strained nerves.

"I am going to offer you a job."

"Thanks, I've already got one."

"This won't interfere with your regular police duties. In fact, it has everything to do with improving your job performance. You must realize that those you investigate and arrest are only a fraction of this city's criminals – the mere scum off of a deep pool of impurity."

Gordon scowled into the glare. "So?"

"If you will work with me, I can help you do more than scratch the surface. I can give you people you never even dreamed of touching."

"If you're looking for a tame cop to sit in your pocket, you're bribing up the wrong tree." Gordon was vaguely aware of having mixed his metaphors, but he really didn't care.

"Believe me, Lieutenant Gordon, the people I give you will all be guilty. I do not think you will regret accepting my offer."

"Do I have a choice?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes," the voice said unexpectedly. "People who are forced to cooperate often give an unsatisfactory performance. In the morning you will be released to return to your job and your family. I am not going to threaten your excellent wife or your delightful daughter, although it would be obviously quite easy for me to do so. You don't have to give me an answer tonight. Think it over for a few days, and I'll be in touch."

"No thanks," Gordon replied.

"I'm not going to accept that," the voice stated calmly, "because you obviously haven't thought it over. You can choose to go on as you are – I already said I would allow it. But consider it: if you survive, what do you have to look forward to? A lifetime of throwing yourself against the odds alone? Of one failure after another? How much longer will your wife put up with it, do you think?"

"Leave my family out of this," Gordon rasped.

"I'm simply pointing out the facts. My dear lieutenant, is what I'm offering really so different from your current arrangement with the Batman? With, of course, the exception that I can offer you a promotion, resources, and a promise of safe conduct for yourself and your family. I'm giving you a chance to actually make a difference."

Gordon remained silent.

"Atuan, you may take him now. Please make our guest as comfortable as the situation will allow."

The blindfold descended over Gordon's eyes again, and he was pulled back to his feet and led from the room. As far as he could tell, they seemed to be retracing their previous path, and they were soon climbing the long flights of stairs. They passed what Gordon judged was their entrance level, and had gone several landings above it, when a loud roar shook the building. Gordon fell full length onto the stairs as chunks of the ceiling cascaded around and onto him.

As the last of the debris stopped falling, he cautiously sat up and pulled off his blindfold. He was in a narrow stairwell lit by a single dim and flickering bulb. Below him sprawled the body of his captor, a muscular Middle Eastern man. A section of corroded pipe had apparently caught him directly on the head because he was bleeding profusely from one temple.

Shifting carefully across the rubble, Gordon hopefully poked around the body for the gun, but it was nowhere to be found. Inside the unconscious guard's jacket, he found two heavy wooden sticks, connected at the ends by a short chain. It looked like something out of a Jackie Chan movie, but it was better than nothing.

As he maneuvered himself to his feet, the light flickered and went out, leaving the stairs in pitch blackness. Gordon hesitated, trying to remember what he had seen in the last moment of light. The stairs going up had looked to be in better shape than the ones going back down. He began to climb.

- - - - - -

Dick stood very still on his end of the board. He wasn't at all afraid of heights, but he was worried about Miss Somerville. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut and she was gasping and hunched forward, as if she were sick. He'd never seen anyone look so afraid.

"Don't be scared, Miss Somerville," Dick pleaded. "Rachel Jr. won't hurt you." Unconsciously, he began to step toward her, the board shuddering under his weight. The guard drew back the bolt on his rifle, the click clear in the cold air.

Miss Somerville's eyes flew open, and she stared at him, almost as if she didn't see him. But the next moment she gasped, "Richard, don't _move_."

Dick looked at the guard's gun, which pointed straight at Miss Somerville's heart. "Ok," he said in a small voice.

Miss Somerville slowly bent her knees until she was squatting, then tilted forward so that she landed solidly on her kneecaps, sending a tremor through the wood. She settled back onto her heels and stayed that way, panting heavily as though she had been running very hard for a very long time. "Chess," she said suddenly, around her painful breathing. "Let's play chess."

Dick, trying to watch both the guard and Miss Somerville, didn't think that he had heard right. "What?"

"_Chess_," she gritted, sounding angry. "I'll…be white."

Obviously, Miss Somerville had gone crazy. "We don't have a board," Dick pointed out timidly.

"In your head," she snapped. "The board is always…" She sucked in a sharp breath, and her shoulder hunched up sharply. "…in your head. King's pawn…to King's fourth."

"I don't understand," he pleaded.

"Picture the board in your head!" she shouted, suddenly looking less scared.

Of course he could do that. He could see the black and white squares, with their two armies lined up on the edges. Mentally, he pushed the white pawn in front of the queen forward two spaces. Black had to answer now. "King's pawn to king's fourth?" he echoed doubtfully.

"Good," she grunted. "King's knight to…" She trailed off in a small moan and doubled over until her head nearly touched the wood in front of her knees.

"Where's your knight, Miss Somerville?" Dick encouraged.

"King's knight to…king's bishop's third."

He made the mental adjustment. "Queen's knight to queen's bishop's third."

"King's bishop," she said, her voice uneven, "to queen's bishop's fourth."

"King's knight to king's rook's third."

"Queen's rook's pawn to queen's rook's third."

The longer they played, the steadier Miss Somerville's voice grew, although Dick was pretty sure he was winning. He had just taken one of her rooks when there was a muffled roar and the building shuddered, shaking the board. Dick fell forward onto his knees and grasped the wood desperately. Their guard looked nervously over his shoulder, but nothing else happened.

"Are you all right?" Miss Somerville asked, sounding shaky again.

"I'm ok. I think it's your turn."

Five moves later, Richard was watching the guard look at his watch, when the door directly behind him slowly opened and a man emerged.

"Queen to king's knight's fifth," the social worker said.

"Um…king's bishop," he began, distracted by the new arrival. "King's bishop to…What's in queen's fifth?" The figure was walking silently across the roof toward the guard.

"I…don't remember. Nothing, I think."

"King's bishop to…"

The man had something grasped in his two hands in front of him. Now he lifted it and Richard watched the dark and slender sideways arc end in a vicious crack on the side of the guard's head. He fell without a sound.

The newcomer dropped his weapon and ran forward, and now Dick saw that it was the policeman who had asked him questions after he and Miss Somerville had been kidnapped that other time.

"All right, kid, nice and easy." Lieutenant Gordon reached out his two hands, which were tied together, and grabbed hold of Dick's jacket to pull him to safety.

The moment Dick's feet were on the roof he ran over to Miss Somerville. She was still kneeling stiffly on the board, and now that he was closer he saw that her teeth were clenched tightly, pulling her cheeks into funny bulges. In the front of her shirt there was a lump that wiggled frantically. Dick pulled her shirt hem free of her waistband, and a gerbil, a mouse head, and a mouse body tumbled onto the snowy roof. Dick stared down at the bloody mess in horror. "Rachel Jr., you _bad_ gerbil!"

Miss Somerville wrenched herself around and gagged violently.

Dick snatched up his gerbil, tucked her down the front of his own t-shirt for safe keeping, and discovered Gordon was kneeling in the snow next to them. "Are you two all right?"

"I think so," Dick replied when the social worker seemed unable to answer. "Miss Somerville's just scared."

"Is there anyone else up here?"

"No, just him." Dick pointed at the prostrate guard. "The others went back inside."

"All right. Why don't we see if he's got a knife or something so we can get these ropes off?"

They rummaged through the fallen man's pockets and found not only a handgun and flashlight but also a wicked looking switchblade. Dick carefully sawed through the rope around Gordon's hands, and then the cop did the same for Miss Somerville.

She had regained enough self-possession to speak. "Please tell me you're here with the cavalry."

Gordon shook his head. "Just me. The rest of the force is tied up with a major hostage situation." He quickly explained how he had been lured into the school and abducted, then taken in front of the mysterious man behind the desk.

"Gatsby," she said. "He calls himself Gatsby. He claims to be behind everything that's been going on with Richard."

"But if he's gone to so much trouble to get the boy, why did he try to kill you two?"

"He doesn't want Richard," she muttered, and continued, almost to herself, "he said it's never been about the Graysons."

"Well, whatever he's after, we've got to get out of here. I'm not sure how though. There was an explosion that felt like it brought down half the building."

She pulled off her glasses and rubbed fretfully at the bridge of her nose. "The games have begun," she muttered abstractedly. "That's what he said when the explosions started. The games have begun. Games down there, games up here…"

Dick watched her uneasily, trying to understand how their chess game had anything to do with the explosion.

She suddenly stiffened. "_Madre de Dios_."

"What?" Gordon demanded.

She carefully put her glasses back on, and then she reached over and pulled Dick close, her fingers biting painfully into his upper arm. "It's a game," she said. "This is check. You have to take the king to win. But I never realized…"

"Realized what?" Gordon asked, sounding as confused as Dick felt.

"Who the king is."

- - - - - -

Batman was several feet down the pipe when the promised explosion shook the building. A fine rain of silt drifted around them, but other than that, the structure of the pipe seemed to hold. He continued to slip down the corroded and slightly angled surface for what he was figured was close to two hundred feet. The pipe abruptly ended above a stagnant pool of water.

Working himself around so that he could look out without emerging, he saw that he was in an underground cavern much like the caves beneath Wayne Manor. Apparently, this was where the factory had dumped its waste back in its days of production, and probably also where it had gotten the spring water it bottled.

The cavern was empty and the pool small. He swung himself out and over onto dry rock, and took a moment to answer the signal that had been buzzing quietly in his ear.

"Sir, the coordinates have shifted, a sixteenth of a degree northeast."

"Acknowledged," he muttered, and moved toward a small door set in the rock. It was locked, but a moment of cautious jimmying opened it and let him into a tiny corridor, which in turn led into a dim and dusty room that looked as if it had been the control center for some kind of _Mission Impossible_ operation. Chunks of plaster were littered across the desks, and a haze of dust was still thick in the air – apparently the effect of the Joker's little bombs had not been as benign here as in the tunnel.

He moved swiftly through the mess, navigating to line up with the coordinates on this level, hoping against hope it was the right one. The room was lit only with a couple of flickering incandescent bulbs, but a shaft of brighter light shone from under a door in the wall. As he approached, it swung open and a man came out. Batman shrank back into the shadow, but the other man had quick eyes. They focused, widened, and then something spiked and lethal was whistling through the air.

Months of fighting street criminals with no training and less sense had dulled the edge of his instincts, and he only just managed to duck and let the projectile sail over his head. He lunged forward, taking a desk chair with him to hurl at the assailant and throw off the aim of the gun that was aimed at his heart.

They grappled, briefly but fiercely, before Batman managed to crack his opponent's head against the wall. He dropped the unconscious body and scanned his surroundings, but no one had appeared to investigate the noise. He forced his breathing to slow and cleared his mind of the vestiges of shock. He hadn't tangled with anyone so skilled since..._since the night on the train..._ Stepping forward, he looked into the lighted room.

The man behind the desk looked at him quite calmly. "Do come in, although I must ask that you advance slowly. This complex was built so that it could be destroyed at a moment's notice, and I now have my finger on the detonator switch. While it might be fitting for us to die together, I doubt that you want to take Richard Grayson or your friend Lieutenant Gordon along with us."

"Gatsby," Batman growled, stalking slowly forward, trying to see where the other man had his hands.

"That is one of my names. What else did our grinning friend tell you about me?"

_This is Gatsby's show from start to finish. He owns this town. His people are everywhere._ "Nothing important." He advanced another step, the echo of a memory worming its way to the surface of his mind. _A city so corrupt..._

"Stop right there, please."

"Tell me your names." _...that we have infiltrated..._

Gatsby smiled faintly. "You know them already."

_...every level of its infrastructure._ Too late, the pieces clicked into place. "Drug trafficker."

"That is one."

"Master of Gotham."

"Yes."

"Puppet," he hissed with disdain.

"Nothing so crude." Gatsby shook his head. "Better a shadow, acting in accord with the will of the one who casts it."

"He is dead."

"We are his body. We live, and we call you to account for your betrayal. Take off your mask, Bruce Wayne."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage! If you didn't find the promised fluff, it's up as it's own story, Blithering Bats, It's Halloween, Batman!. I promise I will finish it before Halloween.


	43. Yes

**A/N** I saw The Prestige yesterday! Christian Bale was marvelous (and displayed yet another splendid accent), as were Jackman and Caine. It was quite a dark movie, but if you like puzzles (it reminded me in some ways of an Agatha Christie novel), I highly recommend it.

Tune in after the chapter for two important announcements! This is a long one, and I didn't want them to be forgotten by the end :)

This chapter contains a new and improved version of the movie quotes game: Multiple movie quotes are present, and to level the playing field, they are ALL from Batman Begins. Reviewer who finds the most wins a prize! (I hope this makes up for the impossible ones I foisted on you guys last time!)

Y'all owe IcyWaters a huge thank you for salvaging this chapter – _It_ was a mess, _I_ was a mess, but she did her wonder-woman beta thing, and I think it's going to be ok!

**Disclaimer** Richard, Gordon, and Bruce all belong to D.C. Comics. But Somerville is exclusively mine, and, doggone it, I _like_ her.

**Chapter 42**

_If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it to the last article._

_-Othello_

The picture inside Cecilia's head was suddenly, blazingly clear. She had been convinced it was all about Richard: his security in jeopardy, his home threatened, his guardian a criminal and his mysterious past the key to everything. But if you turned the board and looked at things from the other side, the same moves added up to a different strategy. _Wayne's company accused of fraud, Wayne's custody rights challenged, Wayne himself framed for murder, Wayne distracted by the wrong mystery…_ The threads of a web long in the weaving had suddenly pulled tight.

Gatsby had lied, though, when he had said, _This isn't about the Graysons_. Richard Grayson was terribly important, and she herself had played directly into the enemy's hands. She had scuttled about like an obedient busybody – cracking codes, unearthing secrets, and effectively pinning the Batman's attention in the wrong place. Richard wasn't just the son of Charles Grayson; he also belonged to Bruce Wayne. _Capture this pawn and you can predict the king's next move._

"Miss Somerville?"

Vaguely aware that she'd been babbling about chess, Cecilia returned her attention to the snowy rooftop and the concerned gazes of Gordon and Richard. She couldn't allow Richard to guess what was probably going on below them. _I see the games have begun..._

"Richard, go and pick up your things," she ordered, pointing to his discarded backpack.

"But…"

"_Now_, Richard."

Looking puzzled, he went over and knelt in the snow to pick up the things that had spilled out of the bag.

Cecilia looked Gordon in the eye and said in a low voice, "You have to get him out of here. This is a trap, and he's the bait."

"Trap for who?" Gordon asked, also keeping his voice low.

"The Batman. He's been keeping tabs on the boy since the kidnapping."

Gordon frowned. "You think he knows where we are?"

"I think he's already here, and I think he's in trouble."

"All those explosions," Gordon muttered.

"I'm going back in to see if…anything can be done. You get the boy out and send help."

"If there's anyone to send. Most of the force is tied up with the hostage situation."

"Convenient," she murmured. "Listen, don't tell Richard…" She broke off as the boy approached, his pack again on his back. "All right," she said briskly, "what's the best way for us to get down from here?"

Gordon cast her a puzzled glance, but answered, "Sometimes there's a series of ladders to service the outside of the building. Let's check over by the chimneys." He tucked the still unconscious guard's handgun into his belt, and handed the flashlight to Somerville. "You might want this."

She nodded her thanks and also claimed the rifle, slinging it across her back with casual ease.

Richard was the first one to spot the long gray ladder, the metal rungs of which were actually set into the building.

"I'll go first. It's probably slippery." Gordon eased himself over the edge of the roof onto the first rungs.

Somerville waited until Richard had followed the police lieutenant, before quietly turning and walking back toward the door. A startled cry, "Miss Somerville!" followed her, but she ignored it, trusting Gordon to intervene. Inside the stairwell it was pitch black. She flipped on the flashlight and began to go down.

- - - - - -

_The League of Shadows_. He should have known.Falcone had been killed and replaced with hardly a tremor in the underworld. There was only one source for that kind of power. He could remember word for word what Ra's had said as they stood in the halls of Wayne Manor. _You are defending a city so corrupt, we have infiltrated every level of its infrastructure._ But he had been so sure that with the demon's head severed the body too would die, or at least that the League's operations in Gotham had been wiped out.

"Take off your mask," Gatsby ordered again.

"I'd rather not."

Gatsby's mouth tightened and his nostrils flared, but he said only, "As you wish."

"It appears we are at an impasse."

"Not quite. You are going to die, but when and how remains your choice. You can attack me now, causing me to pull this switch to send you, me, Lieutenant Gordon, and Richard Grayson****into the life to come. Or you can surrender and accept death when and how I shall choose to grant it."

"Saving my life so that you can hang me properly?"

"Something like that. I do hope you see things my way – blowing up that brilliant young mind would be a waste, although I can't tell you how delighted I was when I learned that you had become involved with him. He was such an obvious weakness."

_Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share._

"He's an innocent child. Let him go. Your quarrel is with me." He was seized with a horrible sense of déjà vu, as if at any moment Ra's would walk into the room.

"Individual innocence and guilt are relative and irrelevant in the cosmic scale. They matter only to the selfish."

"Justice isn't gained by exploiting children."

"Richard Grayson was not exploited. He played the part he was meant to play."

"The part you wrote for him."

"No. He is here because of who he is – the brilliant son of a brilliant father. If Charles Grayson had never written his formula and left a son, a son whom you are remarkably reluctant to relinquish – well, we wouldn't be here, would we? The universe seeks harmony, and despite all of our puny efforts to change its course, its movement is unstoppable. We are gathered together, Bruce Wayne, not by choice but by design."

"I don't believe in destiny."

"Of course you don't. But then you must admit the child is involved by your choice, not mine, and now you have to choose again. Surrender, letting him live and me escape, or kill us all."

_It's a choice you may one day have to face…Between the life that you can't see…and the one that you can._ Ra's hadn't said that. Alfred had.

But he would not make that choice until there were no other options left. Slowly, he reached up and removed his cowl.

"The weak are always predictable." Gatsby's tone was full of cold satisfaction, but there was something else – a note of almost personal malice.

Another memory was swimming to the surface – not one of Ra's, but of the man who played the part.

_You cannot lead these men unless you are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil._

_And where would I be leading these men?_

_Gotham..._

Bruce casually dropped the cowl onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Now what?"

Gatsby's right hand appeared, holding a gun. I could simply shoot you, but somehow, it doesn't seem fitting to execute you like a common criminal. Especially after all the trouble I went through to have you killed as the Batman. And then there's the question of the police. Their questions wouldn't be nearly so intrusive if they'd found you dead by the Joker's distinctive hand."

"I see your difficulty. The police are always a problem."

"An opinion we hold in common."

Bruce thoughtfully folded his arms. "Among other things."

"Oh?" Gatsby asked politely.

"I couldn't help noticing your Monet." Bruce pointed over his shoulder at the water lilies. "I have one from the same period in my study. And I wish," he continued, focusing on the painting that hung behind Gatsby's chair, "that I could find a Degas the equal of that one."

Gatsby's expression grew sardonic. "Fortunately, I know the picture you're talking about, and I have no need to _turn around_ and look at it."

Bruce smiled slightly. "It's a pity to shut it up behind glass."

"It is safer that way. I cannot always control the climate conditions."

"Of course."

"And what else do we share, Mr. Wayne, aside from an appreciation for the Impressionists?"

"And aside from the obvious?"

Gatsby's voice was full of tolerant patience. "Enlighten me. I am afraid it is not as obvious to me."

Bruce shifted his stance slightly so that the reflection on the glass displayed Gatsby's hand resting quietly against the underside of the desk. "We were both picked to lead an attack on Gotham. Is the room out there the remains of your control center for…" _Over the ages our weapons have grown more sophisticated. With Gotham we tried a new one... _"Economics, wasn't it?" He smiled, tauntingly. "Ra's said that you underestimated certain of Gotham's citizens. And then he chose me, the son of the people who caused your failure, to replace you. Destiny is a tricky thing."

Gatsby flinched, and his left hand flickered out from beneath the desk.

Bruce dove forward, clearing the desk as a shot exploded past his ear, and the two men crashed to the floor. Gatsby's slender form proved deceptively strong, and for a moment they wrestled desperately for the gun, before Bruce wrenched it up and around, cracking the other man's fingers like matchsticks.

He pulled out the thin wire from the utility belt and lashed Gatsby's wrists and ankles together, then leaned down and grabbed the former master of Gotham by the hair and forced his face upward. "Where is my son?"

Gatsby smiled faintly. "You cannot reach him."

Bruce grabbed the broken hand and wrenched it. "_Where is he_?"

Gatsby was gasping as large beads of sweat trickled down his pale forehead, but he was still smiling. "Dead. Will you condescend to kill me now?"

Cold and heavy, despair slid through him, leaching meaning from action. "I am no executioner," he said, but the words were hollow. And then, because he had to know, he asked, "How did he die?"

"It was left to Cecilia Somerville," Gatsby said, then slumped as Bruce, blind with fury, struck him savagely across the temple.

- - - - - -

Gordon grabbed the kid's ankle as he tried to climb back up the ladder. "Hey, you're coming with me."

"But Miss Somerville…"

"She's going to help the Batman inside, while we go for…" Dick's sneaker slammed into Gordon's nose. The shock caused the policeman's feet to slip on the icy ladder, and he had to let go of the kid to keep both from falling. When he had regained his balance, Dick was already out of sight across the roof.

Gordon followed him into the stairwell, trying to stem the tide of blood from his nose on his sleeve. It was completely dark inside the building, and he tentatively felt his way down the first few steps. "Richard Grayson!" he called as loudly as he dared, but although he could hear faint scrabbling sounds below him, there was no response.

Obviously, there was no way he could catch the kid in the dark, and he would probably break his own neck if he tried. Gordon ran back across the roof and started down the ladder.

- - - - - -

The dust still hung in the air like a heavy smog. Cecilia held her shirt cuff over her mouth and breathed through the fabric as she stood at the edge of the demolished factory floor. She listened carefully, but no sound came out of the darkness. If Batman was here, she would never be able to find him. She turned away and continued descending the stairs, shielding her light with her fingers and forced to go slowly because of the partially collapsed ceiling.

At last she caught a glimpse of a level hallway only a few feet below the rail, and found that she could flip off her light because, miraculously, a light bulb was still working. As she slowed to peer down at it, she heard footsteps above her on the stairs. She took a final look at the floor, then turned off her light, climbed over the rail, and dropped.

Cecilia remained crouched by the stairs, her attention trained on the noise above her as she reached for the rifle. The first she knew of the presence behind her was the gauntleted hands that closed around her neck, crushing her windpipe. Streaks of white light blazed across her eyeballs, and her head swam with pain as she fought for air. Then the pressure was suddenly gone, and she was somehow flat on her floor with a sharp pain in her back and her arms pinned forcefully down. There was a strange rasping in her ear, but it took a moment before the sounds translated themselves into words.

"_What have you done with him_?"

She managed a wheezing breath, and blinked up. The dim blur a few inches from her own became a face that filled her with terror. She closed her eyes and tried to pull in another breath. A burning line seared down her breastbone, and she choked, bereft of enough breath to scream.

"_What have you…_"

- - - - - -

In the project graveyard, a vent sailed out of the wall near the ceiling, and a bedraggled figure emerged from a shaft. The Joker dropped to the floor and brushed uselessly at the plaster dust that coated his suit. He cautiously moved across the deserted area toward the partly open door of the office. Crouching low, he poked his head around the door and saw that the room appeared empty. He slipped in and crossed to the section of the wall behind the desk where he lifted a painting and pressed a spot on the wall. A panel slid back to reveal a passageway.

The Joker cast a final glance around the room, and his gaze landed on the Monet that hung on the far wall. Moving quickly, he grabbed the painting and headed back around the far edge of the desk, where he almost tripped over the prostrate and bound figure.

"This," said the Joker, "is far beyond what I had ever hoped for. And to think that I was lamenting the irony of having caved in my own escape route." He bent down and put his ear in front of Gatsby's mouth. The man was unconscious but still breathing, although his face was ashen. The Joker carefully set the painting on the desk and picked up a silver letter opener that lay on the carpet among a litter of paper. With the eye of an artist, he gently placed the sharp edge against the corner of Gatsby's mouth, then flicked his wrist. A repeat of the procedure on the opposite side converted the mouth into a lurid, dripping grin.

"Of course, this would be more satisfactory if you were awake," the Joker said softly, "but I'll always remember it as the year Christmas came early." He carefully folded back the cuff of his right sleeve, then buried the letter opener in Gatsby's chest. "I'll have to send the Batman a thank you note."

Flipping his cuff back down, he stood and looked down at the corpse. "I wonder," he murmured, "just how much you really did know about me. And what have you left for inquisitive bat-claws to pick through?" Pushing the fallen chair out of the way, he knelt in front of the desk and examined its underside. "Aha. Right where I thought it would be. So unimaginative."

- - - - - -

_If anyone ever deserved to die..._

Somerville was staring up at him, and Bruce knew she knew she was about to die. She was terrified, literally trembling with fear. With a supreme effort, she pleaded, "_Don't. Batman._"

_Damn her_.

_It can't be personal, or you're just a vigilante._

He couldn't kill her.

A small voice exclaimed joyfully, "Bruce!"

His head snapped up and he stared in disbelief at Dick who stood, glowing with life on the stairs. Then he hauled himself over the rail and snatched up his ward into a crushing hug. "_Are you ok?_" he demanded, not quite able to believe in the reality of the situation.

"Yeah." Dick frowned and put a hand on Bruce's cheek. "Where's your mask? Are you hurt?"

"I…" _Where is my mask?_ "I'm fine. How did you get here?"

"I was looking for Miss Somerville. But before that we were kidnapped by Mr. Judas. He had a gun and he made Miss Somerville drive us here."

_Dear God._

Bruce's gaze was instinctively drawn to floor over the side of the stairs. Somerville had managed to pull herself up against the far wall, and she sat in a huddled ball with her face buried in her knees. Her shoulders shook with repressed sobs.

"Miss Somerville!" Dick called anxiously, leaning forward in Bruce's arms. "Are you all right?"

She looked up, and Bruce realized that she wasn't crying, but laughing. She looked up and met his eyes. "Blessed are they," she managed, "which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Leaning heavily against the wall, she slowly rose to her feet. "Richard, why aren't you with Lieutenant Gordon?"

Dick stared down defiantly. "You shouldn't have gone by yourself."

Somerville stared back, then looked up at the ceiling. "I have never been more grateful for the fact that I have no children." She bent and picked up her fallen rifle.

A dull red light suddenly suffused the hallway, and a metallic voice announced, "T minus ten minutes."

Somerville swung startled, questioning eyes to Bruce.

"We need to get out of here," he affirmed.

"Lovely. Richard, did Lieutenant Gordon follow you inside?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't know."

Somerville scowled. "There must be a way to disarm it."

"The trigger was in Gatsby's desk," Bruce began, "I'll…"

"What part of the desk?" Somerville interrupted. "You get Richard out, I'll take care of the bomb."

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, and she threw back the rifle bolt. "Don't _make_ me point this gun at you. I would take distinct pleasure in putting a bullet in your shoulder."

"T minus nine minutes."

"Wayne…"

"Left hand underside," he said, and ran up the stairs.

- - - - - -

Cecilia waited until they were out of sight before hurrying down the corridor. It ended in a door that came out in the project graveyard, not far from the tunnel entrance she had first come in by. Even as she identified it, the door swung open, and Carlos Morales stepped into view.

"Buenas noches, Señor."

He spun and stared down the bore of her rifle.

"T minus eight minutes."

He was afraid, but still too proud to beg. "Our fortunes are reversed yet again, Señorita. Go ahead. Kill me."

Her finger tensed on the trigger, but she shook her head. "You're going back to Colombia to stand trial. American justice is too good for you."

A trace of bravado returned to his face. "You hide behind your pitiful claim of justice because you are afraid. You can kill children, but you cannot shoot a man."

"I didn't kill Samara," she said coldly, dropping her aim. "You did."

His mocking smile evaporated into a scream as the bullet exploded his knee.

"Apparently we're on the verge of being blown to bits. I wouldn't want to die without you, Don Carlos."

"T minus seven minutes."

Cecilia ran toward the office.

- - - - - -

Sleeves pulled over his palms so that his hands wouldn't freeze to the metal of the ladder, Gordon carefully climbed down the last few rungs and gratefully set his feet on asphalt. Keeping close to the wall, he began to work his way around the building. After a hundred feet or so, he rounded a corner and saw a car parked in front of a door. _This must be where they took me in_. He had barely begun to creep forward when the door burst open and two men in silver wigs, probably the same ones who had brought him here, ran toward the car. They jumped in and took off, almost before the car doors.

Gordon stared at their retreating taillights, then moved more quickly toward the door into the building. The clowns had left it wide open and he peered cautiously inside. It looked like****a barely functional waiting room with a desk and a few straight backed chairs. The only alarming aspect of the scene was the odd red lighting that suffused the room, but Gordon was more interested in the phone that rested on the desk. Moving quietly forward, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, but there was no dial tone.

"T minus six minutes." Gordon jerked in surprise at the metallic voice that came quietly from the ceiling. _This can't be good._

He turned back toward the door just as the Joker, in full costume and carrying a picture frame, appeared in it. They stared at each other, both shocked into immobility, before Gordon came to his senses and lifted his gun. The Joker hurled the picture, throwing off the shot, and whirled and ran back outside, with Gordon in hot pursuit.

- - - - - -

Cecilia nearly tripped over Gatsby's body as she ran around the desk in what had once been a room of beauty and order. Taking in the corpse's mutilated face, she permitted herself a small grimace before dropping to her knees and peering underneath the desk. A slender wooden cover was already slid back, revealing two identical buttons and a flat dial with minutes marked on it.

"T minus five minutes."

She needed to reach the wire connected to the timer, but the buttons and dial were set in a metal plate screwed into the wood of the desk. _You can never find a nail file when you need one_. Gritting her teeth, she crawled over to Gatsby's body and jerked the letter opener out of his chest. _Think about it later,_ she ordered herself, wiping the blade on her pant leg before inserting the tip into the first screw. Her impromptu screwdriver was slippery with blood and the screws were tight; the time was down to less than two minutes before the plate dropped into her hand.

It remained connected to the desk by three strands of fine wire – one for each button and the dial. Balancing the plate on one hand so as not to put tension on the wires, she maneuvered the blade so that its sharp edge pulled slightly against a loop in the dial wire.

_I promised to go to Terry's for Christmas this year_, she remembered, a small smile tugging at her lips. That was one ordeal she wouldn't regret missing if things went wrong.

"T minus thirty seconds."

With a quick flick of her wrist, she cut the wire.

- - - - - -

With Dick slung over his shoulder, Bruce took the stairs in twos and threes. Five landings up, they finally came to a tiny corridor identical to the one they had just left with three doors leading off it. Bruce kicked open the first of them and plunged through before realizing it led only to the demolished factory floor. He turned around to explore the other doors just as one of them opened and a man dressed in black came through. His eyes fell on Bruce, and his slender frame immediately dropped into a battle crouch. Bruce lost a precious second as he desperately half lowered, half tossed Dick safely behind him, and he was just barely in time to block the attacker's vicious blow toward his neck.

Their movements as they fought were silent, efficient, and brutal. _This is not a dance. _Bruce fought desperately, aware of the voice that was saying, "T minus three minutes," but his opponent seemed to be equally desperate, and his lack of armored protection also gave him the edge of agility to stay a fraction ahead of the vicious blows that could have ended the fight.

They swung around, and Bruce suddenly had a clear view of Dick standing behind the enemy. The boy dropped into a low crouch, and Bruce had only a moment to guess his intent before he sprang, knocking into their adversary.

_Richard Grayson, you are in so much trouble_, a small voice in the back of Bruce's mind snapped, even as he automatically exploited the flicker of distraction, and knocked his antagonist into unconsciousness. "T minus fifty seconds."

He grabbed Dick's hand and they ran back into the hallway and through another door. The room beyond it was empty, and the exit to the outdoors stood wide. He picked the boy up and sprinted out the door and through the empty parking lot, his long strides eating up distance while he mentally continued the countdown.

"…_ten, nine, eight, seven, six..."_ They came to a short, but solid, concrete barrier, intended to separate parking lanes. He dropped to the far side of it and huddled protectively over Dick.

"_two, one..._"

Nothing.

Bruce slumped in relief. "I guess she found it."

"She's smart."

Bruce nodded absently, his mind already on the next move as he cautiously raised his head above the barrier and scanned the area. The sparse security lighting had gone completely out, and it took him a moment to spot the man on the far edge of the lot, a welcome and familiar silhouette. _Gordon._

Bruce pulled the key to the Tumbler out of his belt and gave it to Dick. "Tell Gordon the car is parked under the overpass two blocks south of here. You go with him."

"But…"

"_Don't argue, Richard._"

The boy stared up at him, shocked by the harsh tone, and understanding that it wasn't Bruce Wayne who had rescued him. He took the key and ran across the parking lot.

_To Be Continued_

A construction commonly found in the most inconvenient parking lots, placed so as to encourage persons with no depth perception to run into it.

**A/N** So…two, or at the most three, more chapters, an epilogue, and Toward a Dark Horizon will be officially concluded!!!

As I said, two important announcements:

1. If you're looking for a good story, check out Fall to Grace by E Kelly (listed under my Favorite Stories). It's probably best piece of Batman fanfiction that I've read. Her portrayal of Bruce is absolutely compelling, and she's got a magnificent OC. (Note of warning: It _does_ earn its rating, but it never becomes gratuitously graphic.)

2. Sakura 123 has posted a list of challenges for bat-fics in the Batman Begins forum called "Batman Begins Fanfic Faves." So, I am hereby challenging all of you to sign up for one of them and produce a one-shot by U.S. Thanksgiving. Then we can all read and review each other. Doesn't that sound like fun? Of course it does! And be warned, if no one volunteers, I will hound you individually! (If you've never discovered the forums, their link can be found in the top right-hand corner of the Batman Begins stories page.)

Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage.


	44. I mean the fellow's name

**A/N** Hello all you beautiful reviewers! THANK YOU to everyone who said they would participate in the challenge. Remember to go ahead and sign up in the "Batman Begins Fanfic Faves" forum, where minimal rules have been posted. Target date for posting is officially November 22.

Thanks, as always, to my talented bat-beta, IcyWaters!

**Disclaimer** Wikipedia cannot guarantee the validity of the information found here.

_(Disclaimer courtesy of Wikipedia . org)_

**Chapter 43**

_O weary night, O long and tedious night,  
Abate thy hours, shine comforts from the east._

_- A Midsummer Night's Dream_

_Earlier that evening…_

Rachel sat in Judas's office, for once completely at a loss. She had thoroughly searched her section of the building, calling Dick's name and asking everyone she met whether they had seen a little boy, but her search had proved fruitless. And not only had she been unable to find Dick, but now Judas and Somerville seemed to have disappeared as well. Rachel again reviewed her options, which wasn't difficult, because there were only three of them. She could do nothing and hope that Judas somehow had everything under control. But Rachel Dawes was a woman of action and the idea of passively waiting, especially when Cecilia Somerville was involved, was grating. She could call the police, but the first thing the police would do would be to contact Wayne Manor, something Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to have happen. Or, of course, she could call the Manor herself.

She waited through an agonizing twenty minutes and caught herself biting her nails, a habit she hadn't indulged since pre law school, and at last she reluctantly picked up the phone and called. When it came right down to it, she had to admit that she still trusted Bruce more than she trusted the police.

But no one picked up on the Manor main line, and both Bruce and Alfred's cell phones directed her to voice mail. She shut off her phone in frustration, then immediately turned it back on and called the police station to ask for Lieutenant Gordon.

"I'm sorry, the Lieutenant is not available. Should I connect you to his voice mail?"

"No thanks," she muttered, and hung up. _What is going on?_ She was retrying Alfred's cell when the phone on the desk began ringing. The answering machine picked it up just as her own call was switched to voice mail.

"_You've reached the office of Henry..."_

"…_Pennyworth. Leave your name and number and I'll..."_

"…_Get back to you."_

"Alfred, it's…" Rachel abruptly broke off her own message to listen to the voice emitting from the machine on the desk.

"_It's me, I just saw the news. You must have gotten the kid. Congratulations on finally doing your job..."_

"Hello, Rachel." She spun around and saw Judas standing in the doorway, a small black pistol in his hand. "You should have gone home while you had the chance. Put your phone down and keep your hands where I can see them." She slowly complied. "Now sit down. We'll have to wait until the building clears out."

Rachel sank into a chair and Judas sat across from her, the gun never wavering. She stared at him in disbelief, still not quite able to comprehend what was going on. "Where's Dick?" she asked quietly.

"Out of the way."

"Are you going to hurt him?"

"No. He's wanted for ransom purposes."

She relaxed slightly. "What kind of a ransom?"

"Something he inherited from his parents, I believe. I haven't been given all the details, and I don't ask questions."

Rachel scowled. "So does Somerville work for you, or do you work for Somerville?"

Judas smiled. "Neither. She was right about me, you know. From the very beginning, she was right."

She shook her head. "You're lying."

"Why would I? You're not going to have the chance to tell anyone about this conversation. No, Counselor Dawes, she was right, and you were, in every sense of the word, wrong."

- - - - - -

By the time Gordon reached the edge of the lot, the Joker was out of sight. The lieutenant shook his head in regret. He had emptied the clip of the gun as he ran, but he hadn't hit his target.****Finding the Joker in the maze of the subdivision would be impossible. But back inside the factory, he might still be able to do some good.

He had barely gone a hundred feet back toward the building when a miniature figure ran up to him.In delighted disbelief, Gordon clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Dick! Are you all right?"

The boy thrust a key into his hand. "B…Batman says for me to go with you. He…he said the car is parked beneath the overpass two blocks south of here."

"You saw him?" Gordon's eyes automatically scanned the parking lot, and he thought he saw a flicker of movement against the wall of the factory, although it was probably just the shadows playing tricks with his poor vision.

"Yeah. He wants us to leave," Richard said.

When the Bat gave orders, Gordon had learned it was better not to ask questions. "Ok, let's go." He grabbed Richard's hand and start walking, hoping he knew where south was.

He did. The Batmobile crouched in the shadow of the overpass, like some terrible predator awaiting its prey. At the moment, it looked like the most beautiful thing Gordon had ever seen. He unlocked the doors and made sure Richard was strapped in properly before he started the engine. _I think I remember how to drive this thing_.

A sniff from the seat beside him distracted his attention from the controls. Tears were streaming down Richard Grayson's cheeks, and his whole frame shuddered with valiantly suppressed sobs.

"Hey," Gordon said, gently rubbing the boy's back. "It's gonna be ok. We'll just go and get some help for the Batman, and then you can go home."

The kid nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Gordon started the engine and slowly eased out onto the road. He found the freeway, and a few minutes later, they were exiting back into the school district he'd started from. Gordon parked a few blocks away from the actual school, before the security cordoning started.

"Listen, Dick," he said firmly, "you need to stay in the car." He figured it was the safest place to leave the boy. Everyone knew who the vehicle belonged to, and only lunatics messed with it. Even if someone did decide to try something, it would take an armored division to break in. "You don't open the doors unless it's me or the Batman, ok?"

- - - - - -

"Dick's all right," Bruce told Alfred. "He's with Gordon. You'll probably be getting a call before long."

"Will you be home soon?"

"I'm not sure. I have some things to finish."

Inside the factory, the red light had disappeared, leaving only the rare, flickering bulb for illumination. Batman returned to the main floor, where the man he had fought – the one who had seen his face - still lay unconscious. He bound him and dragged him behind a pile of rubble. _What am I going to do with you?_

Abandoning the problem for the moment, he returned downstairs and found the first guard he had encountered beginning to stir. He bound him as well, and then entered the office, where, miraculously, the lighting remained intact.

Somerville was kneeling with one hand plastered to the underside of the desk while the other patted around on the carpet. "There are still wires attached to the plate," she explained as he knelt beside her, "and I didn't want to pull anything else loose. I seem to have lost the screws."

He spotted one of the screws and handed to her, but as she took it, her hand shook convulsively and she dropped it. "Maybe you'd better do it."

She crawled out of the way, and he quickly secured the plate to the desk. As he stood, he picked up a bloodstained blade that lay on the carpet. "What's this?"

"Someone got to Gatsby."

He was examining the late master of Gotham's mutilated corpse when she asked, "I assume this is yours?"

He looked up to see her holding his abandoned cowl.

Somerville thrust it into his hands. "Do me a favor and put it on. You look like a freak."

He silently complied.

"Where's Richard?"

"With Gordon. I assume going for help."

"Do we need it? The place seems deserted."

"The police will want to look around. It's possible that Gatsby's organization will lead to other criminals."

"It may be awhile before they get here. Gordon said there was a hostage situation."

"What?" he asked sharply.

"At a school. The Joker and company."

"I'd better go," he muttered, striding toward the door.

"Hey!" she called sharply, and he turned to look at her. "How did he know who you were?"

"He knew me before," he said simply, and left.

- - - - - -

After the Batman left, Cecilia perched on the edge of the desk, frowning thoughtfully. Something was wrong with this room, aside from the corpse on the floor. She closed her eyes and let exhaustion wash over her. _I know what it is... I can't think_…_Morales_. She straightened, her eyes flying open. _I forgot. I should have told the Bat to send the medics._ She wanted him to stand trial, not bleed to death.

She hurried back out into the large room, using the light shining from the office to guide her. As she approached the place where she had left Morales, she stumbled in the dimness; a shot exploded and fire tore along her left arm. She dove to the floor as another shot sounded. _This is getting ridiculous._ She crawled behind the safety of a desk and gently flexed her arm. Everything seemed to be in working order, except for the blood that soaked her sleeve. _If it were serious, it wouldn't hurt so much_. She held her breath and listened. The room was too quiet to hold a man who'd had his leg blown off.

The flashlight from the rooftop was still stuck in her waistband. She flipped it on and carefully peered around the edge of the desk. Morales lay with the top half of his head blown off, his limp hand still holding the gun next to his temple. _Maybe he couldn't handle the irony of a rat infested prison._

Cecilia sighed and rested against the desk. "Did it have to be my _other_ arm?" she demanded of no one in particular.

- - - - - -

The Joker abandoned his stolen car and moved swiftly through the streets toward the school. Once he was inside, they could progress with their ransom demands and escape, using a few of the students as hostages.

Suddenly he stopped, squinted down the street into the shadows, and swore violently. The Batmobile sat snugly up against a curb, the streetlights glinting dully off its sides. He had counted on the Batman being too occupied with the mess at the factory to interfere in this business. But if the Bat was already inside…

Cautiously, the Joker crept up to the side of the vehicle, and peered in through the window. A small boy sat on the front seat, his knees hugged tightly against his chest. "Ah," the Joker said softly. "Richard Grayson."

As if the boy had heard the words he looked over at the window. A look of panic crossed his face, and he lurched backwards until he was pressed against the opposite door.

The Joker smiled. "I do seem to have quite an effect on you little boy. It must have been the memorable occasion of our first meeting." He suddenly leaned forward and pressed his face against the glass.

Richard screamed, the sound coming distorted through the glass.

"Yes, I killed your father, but I never expected to run into you again. One of life's delightful little jokes."

The child was screaming uncontrollably now, his arms up as if to shield his head from a blow.

"Unfortunately, I have to go now, but I like this city. It's full of interesting people. So don't worry, I'll be back."

With a final, regretful glance in the direction of the school, the Joker headed back toward his purloined vehicle, abandoning his followers to their fate.

- - - - - -

There was a polished coat rack in one corner of the office, and on it hung a man's long winter coat and a black wool scarf. Cecilia wrapped the scarf tightly around her bleeding arm and knotted it clumsily and then pulled on the coat. She had suddenly discovered that she was very cold indeed.

Moving slowly, she righted the desk chair and sat down in it. She remembered the way Gatsby had sat so securely in this very spot, seeming almost immovable. There was, however, something missing from the scene. _Where's his computer?_

The top of the desk was thick – thick enough that you would expect a drawer to run along the front of it. She shone the flashlight along the wood until she found what she was looking for. The two grips fit into the design of the desk, although they were not meant to be invisible. Wedging the light between her legs, she pulled, wincing as the muscles in her left arm contracted. The top of the desk slid easily up and back. In space beneath, there was a keyboard, a flat screen monitor that could be pulled upright, and a round, thin chassis. The computer had been hidden, she thought, not because it was a secret, but because it didn't fit the old world luxury feel of the room. _Artistic man, Gatsby,_ she mused as she carefully disconnected the monitor and keyboard.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the office, something crashed. Cecilia grabbed the rifle and tiptoed around the desk toward the door. Across the graveyard, two figures stood silhouetted in the door to the tunnel, light streaming around them.

"Atuan?" a distinctively booming voice called uncertainly.

_Judas_. Cecilia pressed against the wall next to the door so that her own silhouette wouldn't give her away and waited patiently. She heard them moving quietly through the other room, drawn irresistibly by the light.

"Gatsby?" Judas called.

Rachel Dawes entered first, followed by a gun held against her back. Cecilia waited until Judas had come all the way through the door before pulling back the bolt on the rifle. That click was more effective than any words she might have said.

Judas froze, then turned his head and looked at her.

She smiled. "Hello, Henry."

He didn't smile back. "Drop the rifle, Cecilia, or I shoot her."

Her gaze never wavered, but the smile deepened. "Sorry, Henry, wrong leverage. If you murder a D.A., the prosecution might even be willing to go for the death penalty."

"I'm not joking. I will kill her."

Cecilia shrugged. "It's your trial. But if you think you'd rather not add a murder one charge, you can drop the gun and kick it over here."

He stared at her impassive face, then slowly lowered the gun. Rachel gave a soft gasp and covered her face with her hands.

"Drop it," Cecilia ordered again.

He obeyed, and reluctantly nudged it toward her with his foot.

"On your stomach, please, hands on your head." Cecilia walked over and gently kicked the gun away until it was just beyond Judas's feet, keeping her own weapon trained on his back. "Rachel, tie him up. Use his shoe laces."

Hands shaking slightly, Rachel obeyed, wrapping the thin cords tightly around Judas's wrists and then his ankles. Only after she had tied the last knot did Cecilia lower the rifle and walk to stand in front of Judas's head. "Ironic, isn't it Henry? You, me, and Rachel Dawes, just like old times." She laughed softly and looked up, to find Rachel standing and pointing Judas's pistol at her.The amused expression faded."Dawes, have you gone _insane_?"

"Put down the rifle," Rachel ordered.

Cecilia slowly complied, her face filled with disbelief. "Hey, counselor, we're on the same side now, remember?"

"I'm not sure of that," Rachel contradicted. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

"Did I or did I not just disarm the man who was holding you at gunpoint?" Cecilia stretched out her hands pleadingly.

"After you invited him to shoot me."

Cecilia shrugged. "I would've sent flowers." Then she threw up her hands in exasperation. "Think, Rachel! He wasn't going to add a murder rap to everything else. He's a coward."

"Ok," Rachel said slowly. "Maybe you knew he wouldn't kill me…because you had set this up beforehand."

"Rachel, I'm not working for him."

"You know, that's exactly what he said. I think you're both liars. You set this up to make me trust you."

"Why would I do that? You already offered to give me everything I needed."

"Where is Dick?"

"Exactly like old times, isn't it Cecilia?" Judas asked. He had apparently resigned himself to his position, and was looking up at the two women with a malicious gleam of interest.

She glanced down at him, and then back at Rachel. "This isn't about Dick." She stepped forward, her hands still stretched out in front of her. "This is about what happened five years ago."

Rachel shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."

Cecilia took another step forward, so that her outstretched hands were only inches away from the gun. "You think I don't know what you did after you found me that night in the office?"

Rachel's gun wavered. "Don't come any closer."

"The evidence you caught me with wasn't quite incriminating enough, was it? So you made sure that when the authorities investigated, they would find everything they needed to prove me guilty. And you were certain that I was guilty then, weren't you Rachel? And you have to be certain now, too, because if I'm not now, then maybe I wasn't then, either. That would make what you did…wrong."

Rachel shook her head. "You're crazy."

"Maybe. I can't prove any of it. But you know what?" She leaned forward slightly. "I bet Bruce Wayne would believe me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And so would the Batman."

Rachel stared, stunned. Cecilia wrenched the gun from her loose grasp and hit her over the head with the grip. Rachel slumped to the floor, dazed, as Cecilia scowled down at her. "Crazy lady with a gun."

She stepped back over to the desk and carefully picked up the chassis. Despite its small size, it was heavy, and she carefully balanced it on her right hip like a basket of laundry, trying to keep any strain off her left arm. "I'm leaving," she announced to the two prostrate figures on the floor. "This place isn't exactly healthy. The police will be here soon, so until then, you two enjoy each other's company."

- - - - - -

Paul Cordelia, along with two hundred of his fellow students, sat beneath the glaring lights in the gym, while four men with silver wigs and big guns stood up front on the makeshift stage. One of them kept his gun trained on Keishe and two other girls they had pulled out of the crowd. Two more kept a general eye on the rest of the students, and the fourth kept disappearing through a side door. At the moment, he was not in the room.

Paul had ended up on the far side of the crowd at the end of the folded bleachers, and although it was difficult to see from where he sat, he was beginning to suspect that something had gone wrong. They had been in this position almost since they had first been taken hostage, and although the clowns had at first seemed cool and confident, they were now beginning to shift nervously, and hold low voiced conferences together on the stage. It seemed to Paul that they had been expecting something to happen – and nothing had.

The fourth gunman reappeared through the door and the clowns convened in another of their whispered conferences. Paul pushed himself back another few inches along the floor. He had been doing this for the past half hour, and now his back was practically against the gym wall. Although the bleachers had been folded up into a solid mass to expand the dance floor, there was a narrow margin between them and the wall, and twenty feet down from Paul was a door that led through an equipment room and out into the rest of the school. He cast a final glance up at the stage, but the clowns were looking at each other and not at the crowd. Paul dove behind the bleachers.

It was a bit of an effort to stand up in the cramped space, but once he was on his feet, he edged quickly down toward the door. The lock was broken, thanks to a recent spate of vandalism, and he quickly slipped past the door and through the equipment room into the school hallways.

Paul broke into a trot toward the doors of the school, but as he rounded the final corner, he abruptly froze. Another clown stood in front of the entrance, his gun casually cradled against his chest. Paul whipped back around the corner and pressed himself against the wall. When he was sure he hadn't been seen, he crept quietly back down the hall, hoping he would find one of the offices unlocked so that he could use the phone.

As he passed the slightly open door of a classroom, an iron grip closed around his arm and jerked him inside, while a hand clapped over his mouth to muffle his cry. Terrified, Paul stared up at the hideous black mask that loomed over him, with only a cold glitter where the eyes should have been. It took him a long moment to realize who…what…he was looking at. _The Batman._

Realization must have shown on his face, because the Bat took his glove off of Paul's mouth and released his arm. "Where are the other students?"

He couldn't repress a shudder at the inhuman voice. "In…in the gym."

"How many clowns?"

"F…four. There's one who comes and goes a lot. And there's a door guard too."

"Are they spread out around the gym?"

"No. They're all on the stage in the front."

"Where is the stage?"

Paul's terror was rapidly fading into excitement. "Against a wall, underneath the scoreboard."

"What else is on that wall?"

He frowned, trying to remember. "There's a window into the control room for the scoreboard and the lights and stuff."

The Bat nodded. "Stay here." With a swirl of his cloak, he slipped out of the door.

Paul blinked in surprise, and then he followed. He just caught sight of a dark shadow swinging around the corner toward the front doors. _He's running right into that guard!_ Paul broke into a sprint, but by the time he rounded the corner, the Bat was already returning, the billow of his cloak obscuring Paul's view of the doors.

"I told you to stay put," he snarled, grabbing Paul's shoulder and propelling back the way they had come.

Paul craned his neck and saw the crumpled body of the guard lying in front of the door. "Holy cow!"

"Take me to the control room."

Paul eagerly complied, leading the way through the corridors and up the stairs to the door. He pulled at the handle and turned in dismay. "It's locked!"

The Bat shoved Paul out of the way and kicked the wood, just above the lock. The door snapped open as if it were made of cardboard, not solid oak intended to keep teenaged vandals away from valuable equipment.

There were two windows set in the opposite wall that looked down over the gym, and the control panels full of switches ran in front of them. The Bat stood slightly back from the windows, looking down at the lighted gym, before turning his attention to the controls.

"These," he rasped, touching a set of six switches, "control the lights. When I tell you to, pull them all at once. Wait for twenty seconds, and turn them back on."

Paul nodded and carefully placed his palms along the switches so that he could flip them simultaneously. The Bat pulled a gun from his belt and stood by the window. "Now."

Just before Paul killed the lights, he saw Batman lunge forward, and the darkness was accompanied by the crack of breaking glass. Out in the gym, a girl screamed, and there was a rapid series of thumps. Paul suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be counting to twenty.

When he got to fifteen, he thought he felt a faint breeze across his face, but the air was motionless as he reached twenty and turned the lights back on. Below him, on the makeshift stage, there was a pile of black clad bodies. The Batman was nowhere to be seen.

Paul stared down, dazed, then exclaimed, "Hey!" He turned and ran out the open door, but the corridor was empty. "Thanks," he said quietly.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Two more chapters and Epilogue before I won't be writing the above phrase anymore!

Congratulations to **Chigger** and **Nightarcher 210** for showing me where they found quotes from the movie. Chigger found the most (actually, she showed me quotes that I hadn't even realized were quotes – don't know if this says more about the state of my mind or writers and generic clichés in general), but Nightarcher was the only other person who made the effort, so she gets second place. Prizes will be awarded before the end of the story.

I have written your review responses, but the journal site isn't cooperating at the moment. Hopefully, it will be back up by the end of the day.


	45. Who

**A/N** So…I _totally _wrote a paper on fan fiction for my Theory of Composition class, and my professor loved it! In fact, I believe her exact comment was, "This is great!" So next time someone gets on your case about fanfic, inform them that it is, in fact, a legitimate area of study in the academy.

Thanks to my bat-beta, IcyWaters! (Although, I only managed to get part of the chapter written for her this week, so all typos are upon my own head.)

**Disclaimer** Plastic packaging may cause suffocation and death. Dispose of properly.

**Chapter 44**

_Not every end is a goal. The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either._

_- Friedrich Nietzsche_

Gordon stood next to Captain Stark, eyes fixed on the school. He had delivered an abridged and somewhat censored account of what had happened to him since he had disappeared into the school, and Stark had agreed that some sort of team should be sent to the factory. Since then, they'd been on the radio with the commissioner, who was reluctant to pull anyone off the current situation to go chasing such an improbable sounding story. Gordon was about ready to give up, and go back by himself when the front doors of the school burst open. The SWAT team stiffened to attention, but the only person who emerged was a black kid in a tuxedo. He pelted into the parking lot, stopping abruptly when a voice bellowed, "Freeze!" The kid threw his hands in the air, a scared look on his face.

"It's ok!" he shouted. "The Batman took care of them!"

"Cover me," Gordon muttered, before running forward to grab the kid and pulling him behind the relative safety of a squad car.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

The boy grinned, his momentary fear disappearing behind crazy excitement. "The Batman! He just jumped on them - all four at the same time!" He shook his head, still grinning. "Beyond wicked."

"There were four?" Stark, who had joined them, asked.

"Yeah. Oh, and a door guard that he took out first."

Stark glanced questioningly at Gordon and the lieutenant nodded. "Sounds like his usual M.O."

Fiskers radioed the rest of the force. "We're going in. Be advised that the building may not be clear, and remember that it's full of scared children so _think_ before you shoot."

Gordon ran just behind the first wave of SWAT, and saw the body of the guard as they burst through the front door. The kid hadn't said anything about guards on the school's other exits, though. Gordon stepped out of the main rush and after a minute of hunting found the stairway he had been taken down blindfolded. The basement was musty, and the dim incandescent lights didn't do much to pierce the gloom.

"Over here," a voice rasped.

Gordon spun and found the Bat looming over the fallen body of a clown. "They have a tunnel…"

"I found it," Batman interrupted.

Gordon nodded and handed over the keys to the Batmobile. "I parked three blocks straight east of here. The kid's still in it." Then, because he was dying to know, he ventured, "How'd you get here?"

The Bat regarded him obliquely. "I borrowed a car."

"That's it?" Gordon asked before he could stop himself.

"Actually…I was hoping you would return it for me." The Bat tossed him a set of keys embellished with a pink rabbit's foot. "I didn't ask first."

"Right, sure," Gordon muttered, fingering the rabbit foot. "No problem. What happened back there?" he demanded before the Bat could melt away. "Somerville said it was a trap. For you."

"She was wrong," the Bat said coldly. "It was about the Grayson boy. He's come into a valuable inheritance."

"She also said you'd been keeping tabs on Richard Grayson."

"He was a target." A new tone was creeping into the Bat's voice, softer, smoother, and more frightening than anything Gordon had yet heard out of his masked ally. He realized he didn't actually want to know. Not about the Bat, not about Somerville, not about anything.

"Ok," Gordon said simply. "It's going to be a while before the police make it over there..." He left unspoken the second half of the statement. …_so if there's anything you need to get rid of..._

The Bat nodded, and then he was gone.

- - - - - -

Twenty minutes after he'd gotten the call, Alfred pulled up to the curb behind the Batmobile. He'd been bending the traffic laws again, but fortunately there hadn't been any officers of the law around to observe him.

Dick was curled into a tight ball in the driver's seat of the Tumbler, but as Alfred unlocked and swung open the door he jerked upright with a gasp. His face was smeared with dust and tears, and his fine blond hair was matted to his head with sweat. When he saw Alfred he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the butler's neck. "It's all right, Master Dick," Alfred soothed, holding the trembling boy tightly. "We're going home now."

The butler drove with one hand, keeping the other comfortingly on Dick's shoulder, but the boy continued to shiver all the way back to the Manor. Alfred led the way straight up to the boy's room.

"How's your head?" He gently brushed the blond hair out of the pale blue eyes.

"Fine."

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

The boy shook his head.

"I'm going to run your bath, then." Alfred led the unresisting boy into the bathroom and started the water before helping him undress. As he pulled off Dick's t-shirt, something furry fell to the floor.

"Rachel Jr.," Dick said with a trace of surprise, the most energy he'd shown since Alfred had pulled him out of the Tumbler.

Alfred clapped his hand over the animal and was relieved to feel it quivering. For a moment he'd feared it might be dead. "I'll just put her back in her cage, shall I?" When he returned to the bathroom, he was immensely relieved to find that Dick had finished undressing and had put himself in the bathwater. Alfred shut off the taps. "I'm going to go and prepare a little supper while you wash."

He waited until Dick obediently picked up the washcloth and soap before heading downstairs. As he passed the front hall he heard the front door open, and Somerville entered. Alfred stood stock still, his eyes narrowed. Bruce hadn't explained what the social worker's current status was.

She was kneeling on the floor now, setting down what looked like a piece of computer equipment. "Miss Somerville," he said, striding forward.

"Mr. Pennyworth." She stood and gently nudged her previous burden with her toe. "Would you give this to Wayne? He'll know what to do with it."

Alfred settled on the direct approach. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened?"

She looked at him and he saw that she was dressed in a coat that was not her own and smudged here and there with dark patches that looked suspiciously like blood. "From what point, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"Let's start with when Master Dick disappeared this afternoon."

She adjusted her glasses and eyed him severely. "Richard sneaked into my car and hid in the back seat. I, unfortunately, didn't discover him until I reached the social services building, where Henry Judas commandeered us with the aid of a firearm and carted us off to chat with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Gatsby, now deceased. There was a great deal of unpleasantness, which I'd rather not go into just now."

"I see."

"I should hope so. Good night, Mr. Pennyworth."

- - - - - -

Cecilia sat motionless beneath the shower, letting the scalding spray beat across her bowed shoulders. On her left side, the water that flowed over her arm created a pink stream that splashed along the white ceramic of the tub before swirling down the drain.

At last she rose and shut off the water, dried herself awkwardly with one hand, and then wrapped the towel around her arm. She pulled on pajama pants and a loose fitting tank top, then peeled the towel off and looked critically at her arm. It was, as she first thought, no more than a graze, and the bleeding had slowed considerably. The droplets that still oozed up were blazingly scarlet against the blackly bruised skin. She folded a t-shirt into a pad, then pulled a pair of pantyhose out of her drawer. With the help of her teeth, she awkwardly knotted one of the legs around the make-shift bandage. It would have been easier with some help, she reflected as she wound the rest of the nylon tightly around her arm, but she had a sneaking suspicion Pennyworth would have insisted on the hospital. She definitely did not want to go to the hospital.

The childproof cap on the bottle of sleeping pills proved to be a problem. Both of her hands were refusing to grip properly, and she finally had to use her teeth to push and turn, nearly dislocating her jaw and spilling the pale blue capsules across the dresser in the process. She snatched up a double dose, swallowed it without water, and crawled into bed, careful to prop up her arm on a spare pillow. She had no intention of talking to anyone until tomorrow.

- - - - - -

He shot the Tumbler through the waterfall and screeched to the usual bone-jarring halt. He pulled off the cowl and wearily climbed out of the machine. Next to his own computers sat a strange desktop chassis, hooked up to a monitor. Alfred had called after Somerville had returned to the Manor, and Bruce had asked him to attempt to access whatever was on the hard drive. According to the display, the decryption program was still working on Gatsby's passwords.

He began removing his armor, uneasily running over the last part of the night in his mind. After making certain the situation at the school was under control, he had returned to the factory and found that the death toll had risen. The League pawn he had fought upstairs – the one who had seen his face – had regained consciousness and somehow, despite his wire bindings, managed to impale himself on a long and slender knife, although death could not have been instantaneous. Bruce had wondered grimly what dark code of honor the man had been indoctrinated with, and was at the same time aware of relief. He would not have to deal with the problem of a personal prisoner. Not this time.

Downstairs, he had found that the other ninja had imitated his associate's final gesture. This one had managed to free his hands and drive the blade truly home. And nearby, Carlos Morales lay with half his head blown off, to all appearances by his own hand.

Henry Judas, on the other hand, was very much alive and cursing violently as he struggled against his bonds. He had abruptly silenced upon catching sight of the Batman, and made no protest when a gag was shoved in his mouth and he was deposited unceremoniously in the other room.

He had spent the rest of the hours going over Gatsby's office, inch by inch, and digging through as many of the files in the project graveyard as he had time for. In the end, he had found nothing particularly useful. If anything was to be salvaged from the wreck of Gatsby's headquarters, it was in that hard drive.

Bruce had just finished putting away the suit when Alfred entered the caves. "What happened tonight, sir?" the butler asked without preamble.

"It was the League of Shadows, Alfred. They still have a presence in this city. But tonight – tonight was the beginning of the end for them." Bruce hesitated, toying with a thought that had been flitting seductively around the back of his mind ever since he had seen Gatsby's mutilated body. "Once the League is purged from the city…the police should be able to handle things on their own."

"I sincerely hope so," Alfred said quietly.

Together, they took the lift up to the study.

"How's Dick?" Bruce asked as he swung the shelves back into place.

"He's been…" Alfred broke off as the faraway sound of screaming drifted into the room. "…dreaming…" the butler sighed, but Bruce had already shot out of the room.

Dick was sitting bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed but unconscious as he cried out in terror. Bruce grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Dick! Come on, buddy, wake up."

The screaming abruptly stopped. The boy gasped and jerked, then slumped over. Slowly, a look of confused consciousness covered his face. "Bruce? Why are you here?"

"You were having a dream. Sounded like a bad one. Do you remember?" Dick shook his head, causing a stray lock of hair to fall into his eyes. Bruce reached out to push it back, and froze as Dick flinched away.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," the boy said stiffly.

"You aren't bothering me." He waited but Dick just sat hunched over, not looking at him. "What's going on?" he finally asked.

"I should probably go tomorrow."

Bruce scowled in confusion. "Go where?"

"Away. I know I can't stay here anymore."

Bruce felt stunned, then angry. _If Somerville told him that…_ "Says who?"

Dick gave a little sigh. "Rachel. I heard you and her talking."

_Rachel..._ It took him a moment to remember exactly what she had said. _You can't raise a child and be Batman..._ "You heard that, huh?"

"Yeah." Dick's voice was quiet and resigned. "That's why I hid in Miss Somerville's car. I thought I should just go and not bother you anymore."

He was angry again, with a blazing, righteous wrath worth of the D.A. herself. "You don't bother me."

"But Rachel said…"

"Rachel was wrong."

"But…"

"No buts. This is your home now, Richard Grayson, and if you don't like that, you're just going to have to deal with it."

Dick stared at him, wide-eyed. "What about Miss Somerville?" he finally asked.

"She agrees with me." And if she didn't, Bruce reflected, she was just going to have to deal with it too.

Dick took a deep breath. "I didn't want to go," he confessed.

"That's good because I didn't want you to go either."

Dick took another shuddering breath and dissolved into tears, great racking sobs of sheer relief. Bruce pulled him close and let him cry. The kid had had one hell of a night.

- - - - - -

_There were rats. Everywhere. She was stretched on her back, unable to move as they swarmed unceasingly across her body. She knew it was a dream but no matter how she struggled, she could not escape the weight of the hundreds of tiny bodies atop her own. At last she gave up and simply screamed. She screamed until the screaming and even the terror became monotonous, but she continued to scream because there was nothing else to do._

_At last, something changed. The rats stopped moving. A shadow was falling. She could feel the rush of cold that swept before it, sensed the darkness that accompanied it. The rats scattered, afraid of the shadow, and she tried to follow them because she was afraid too, and even the rats were better. But the shadow fell fast, faster than she could run, and she was gripped with a sense of her own doom. The shadow was the one thing she could not fight..._

With an excruciating effort, Cecilia pulled herself out of the dreams and opened her eyes to the dark room. She was panting and soaked with sweat, unable to shake off a woozy feeling of unreality. Slowly, she untangled herself from the covers and turned on the bedside light. Even before she put on her glasses, she could see the blotches of crimson on the sheets. She must have been thrashing violently during her sleep and had bumped her arm, knocking the bandage askew and restarting the bleeding. The sheets were liberally streaked with blood as were her pajamas and, she realized, pulling a sticky hand away from her forehead, her face. Sighing, she looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly 5 a.m. – sleep medication made for very protracted nightmares. She climbed out of bed and shoved her matted hair away from her face, then went to the bathroom to wash off the worst of the blood. What she needed, she reflected as she gingerly removed the soaked t-shirt/nylon combination and dropped it in the bathtub, was a proper bandage, and considering the house, there must be something of the sort on the premises. The question was where.

She drifted out into the hallway and, after a moment's hesitation, took the stairs up to the third floor. All things considered, she thought Wayne would be more likely to let her do things her own way than Pennyworth. But when she approached his bedroom door, she found that it was open, and although the lamps were on, it was obvious the bed had not been slept in. Shrugging slightly, she went in and found the door to the bathroom. It seemed like a logical place to start.

She found toothpaste, cologne, hair gel, aftershave, and two razors that were probably worth more than her life insurance policy, but no bandages. Irritated, she shut the last drawer with a bang and glared at her arm, where the blood was beginning to seep through the towel. All of the medical supplies were probably down in that nasty hole…

"What are you doing in here?" a cold voice asked.

She jumped in surprise, causing the hand holding the towel to jerk against the wound. The spurt of pain brought on a wave of dizziness and her knees buckled; she had to drop the towel and hold on to the sink. "I was looking for a…a…"

"You had better sit down before you fall down." Pennyworth sounded distinctly unhappy, but his hand on her arm was gentle as he guided her out of the bathroom to a chair. "Is this the only place you got shot?" he demanded as he carefully turned her arm toward the light.

Trust Wayne's butler to recognize a bullet wound. "Yes," she admitted grudgingly. "And it's just a graze."

"Nevertheless, you should seek proper medical attention."

"I knew you would say that," she muttered. "I don't need a doctor."

Pennyworth's face took on a look of longsuffering patience, but all he said was, "I'll just fetch something to patch you up with, then."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What, no argument?"

"I've learned to pick my battles where doctors are concerned," he said dryly. "Stay there."

After he left, she slipped off the chair to sit on the floor because it seemed like an awfully long way to fall if her head started spinning again. The floor was highly polished hardwood, most of it covered by pale gold rugs with an intricate flowerlike design. Very nice rugs, she thought, digging her fingers into the thick pile. It was with a ridiculously poignant regret that she realized she was bleeding on it.

- - - - - -

Dick had finally fallen soundly asleep, his breathing deep and even with a look of peace on his wan face. Bruce carefully tucked him in and straightened up, feeling his own exhaustion kick in. If he was lucky, he would be able to grab a couple hours of sleep before it was time to face the daytime aftermath of last night. As he approached his room, he heard a sharp cry followed by, "That's my _arm_ you quack!" Somerville was sitting on the floor while Alfred wound her left arm in gauze.

"What happened?" Bruce demanded, irritated at the intrusion.

"She got shot," Alfred responded, not looking up. He tucked the end of the gauze under and taped it in place. "That should hold for now."

"Are you sure it's tight enough?" Somerville asked sarcastically. "I think I've still got some circulation in there."

"If you won't see a proper physician then don't complain about the treatment," Alfred snapped back and gathered up the supplies before rising to his feet.

"Who shot you?" Bruce asked.

"Morales. I suppose I should consider myself lucky. The next person he shot was himself in the head."

"I saw."

She tilted back her head and squinted up at him. "Speaking of shooting, you still have my gun. I want it back."

"No," he said, wondering why, after all that had happened that night, they were about to launch into a fight.

"No?" Somerville asked, her tone dangerous.

"No," he repeated. "I'm tired of you pointing guns at me."

"If you'd behave like a reasonable human being, I wouldn't have to do it."

"I was holding _Richard_,"he exploded.

"Exactly. The child has already lost two parents, and you seemed intent on depriving him of a third," she said icily. "Furthermore, I merely threatened to put a bullet in your shoulder, after _you_ half strangled me."

Her words stopped his temper cold. His eyes rested on the dark bruises around her throat and a wave of guilt crashed through him. "About that…"

"Don't apologize," she interrupted crabbily. "I know perfectly well why you did it. I'm only pointing out that you don't have any room to criticize."

He stared at her, then turned away, rubbing his face wearily. "You give me a headache."

"Then I consider us even." She sighed. "Look, what happened tonight was – inevitable. I'd rather just forget it. All of it."

"Whatever." He still felt guilty, but more than anything he wanted to her to go away so he could go to bed.

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "If you feel compelled to apologize for something, let it be for freezing me in your drafty manor."

She appeared to be serious. "Sorry," he muttered.

"And I am sorry," she began, slowly rising to her feet, "for bleeding on your carpet. Now that we all feel better about _that_, I'm going back to bed." She headed for the door. "Thank you, Pennyworth. Goodnight, Wayne." She disappeared down the hall.

Alfred was looking at him strangely. "What?" Bruce snapped.

"Did you hear what she said?"

"It didn't make sense to me either."

"Mr. Wayne?" Somerville had reappeared.

Bruce gritted his teeth. "Yes, Miss Somerville?"

"Are you actually going to marry that woman?"

"No," he admitted, the conversation with Dick still fresh in his mind. "Not that it's any of your business."

She looked past him toward Alfred. "Tell me that isn't the best piece of news you've heard all night." Switching her gaze back to Bruce she added, "And it is my business. I wouldn't wish that woman on a boa constrictor." She left.

"It is _not_ your bloody business," Bruce muttered.

"Undoubtedly, she was thinking of her recommendation to Judge Farr," Alfred pointed out.

"Oh, undoubtedly." Bruce looked at his butler, and suddenly noticed how worn the old man's face looked. "Go to bed, Alfred."

"It's hardly worth it at this point, sir."

"You can afford three hours. I'll sleep if you sleep."

It was proof of how exhausted Alfred was that he didn't even try to bargain. "Very well. Good ni…rest well, sir."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** I'm sorry guys, but I'm not going to get review responses written for the last chapter. Life is a little insane right now. But thank you most exceedingly to everyone who reviewed! Reviews keep the muse happy, jolly, and prolific! Thanks also to those of you who reviewed the Halloween fluff.

Only one chapter (and the epilogue) to go!!!!!


	46. The guy on first

A/N Almost there!

As always, a large thank you to my bat-beta, IcyWaters!

Disclaimer He had it comin'! He had in comin'! He only had himself to blame. If you'da been there, if you'da seen it! I tell ya, you woulda done the same…

Disclaimer courtesy of Chicago.

Chapter 45

The cops came to bring Earl in  
They searched the house  
high and low  
Then they tipped their hats  
and said 'Thank You ladies  
if you hear from him let us know.

Well the weeks went by and  
Spring turned to Summer  
And Summer faded into Fall  
And it turns out he was a missing person  
who nobody missed at all.

- "Goodbye Earl"

It was a little before eight when Bruce appeared in the kitchen and found Alfred making coffee. "Has Fox called?"

The butler shook his head, and Bruce settled himself in front of the morning newspapers. The front page story was, of course, the school hostage situation. The Wayne Enterprises scandal had been pushed to page three, but what had happened at the factory was nowhere to be found. And even when Henry Judas' arrest hit the papers, he realized, the splash would very small because none of the witnesses were particularly interested in talking.

"Alfred," he began, setting aside the papers and accepting a cup of coffee, "where was I last night?"

"After the press conference with Mr. Fox, you drove off into the country in a depressed fit, and I was unable to reach you until after Master Dick had been safely returned home."

"I am such a loser."

"I've known worse, sir."

"You're a great comfort to me, Alfred."

- - - - - -

Gladys was worried about Lucius Fox. He was in the office when she left last night, and was still there when she returned in the morning. In fact, she was beginning to think he hadn't left the building since those dreadful investigators had arrived days ago.

"You're not supposed to be here," he told her absently, as she plopped his favorite cappuccino by his elbow. "It's Saturday."

"Hmmmph," she sniffed. "What did you do, sleep in the lounge?"

The phone rang and he snatched it up. "This is Fox…Oh, they did?...For what?…I see…Thank you for calling." He hung up, beaming like Christmas had come a week early, and sprang out of his chair. Gladys shrieked as he grabbed her waist and spun her around the office.

"Mr. Fox!"

"They arrested Earle this morning, for fraud and conspiracy to commit murder. Among other things." He grinned down at her. "Isn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever heard?"

She tried to look severe and failed. "Does this mean you'll actually go home and get some sleep?"

"Who needs sleep?" He let her go and waltzed himself back over to his desk, humming.

Gladys smiled to herself and went back out to the reception area. She had grandchildren, after all, and she recognized the Dixie Chicks when she heard them.

- - - - - -

Rachel was dressed in her bathrobe when she opened the door, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes, as if she hadn't slept all night.

"We need to talk," Bruce said simply.

She nodded and opened the door wider to let him in. "Do you want coffee or anything?" she asked as she waved him to a seat on the couch.

"No thanks."

Rachel filled her own mug, then perched on the edge of a chair across from him. "Bruce, about yesterday…"

He cut her off. "Yes, about yesterday. Dick heard us. That's why he hid in Somerville's car and ended up in social services."

Rachel stared at him with horrified eyes. "Oh, Bruce…I'm so sorry."

His eyes were cold, uncompromising. "It's done. There's no taking it back. What I need to know is – what do you plan on doing?"

She closed her eyes, wrapping her hands tightly around her mug. This wasn't her first cup of coffee, and Bruce wasn't the first visitor she'd had that morning.

"_What did you mean yesterday, when you told me you would give me anything I needed to get Richard away from Wayne?"_

"_I...I don't know what I meant."_

"_Then you'll have no objection to my telling you – you meant that you were peculiarly confused, and hadn't thought through what you were saying. Since then, you've come to your senses and realized that you meant nothing at all."_

"_I..."_

"_Swear to me, Rachel Dawes. Swear you will leave that family alone."_

"_You have no right to interfere with them."_

"_And you do? You don't want to fight me on this Rachel. Believe that if you believe nothing else. Ultimately, you'll only have one course of action – to expose him for what he is. I don't think even you are capable of that."_

"I'm leaving Gotham. I've been offered a job with a good firm in Chicago."

She could see she had caught him off guard, and the edge of his coldness melted a little. "Gotham is your home. Rachel, if this is because of me…"

"It's not," she said hastily. "I wasn't ready for this job, Bruce. I did it because there was no one else, but…Do you know what happened last night?"

"Which part?" he asked, not without a trace of humor.

"My part. I was in Henry Judas' office and I heard something I wasn't supposed to. He caught me, and for a while, I thought I wasn't going to make it. That he was going to get away with it. And it would be my fault, because I should have seen through him."

He sat silently for a long moment. One part of her wanted him to protest, to tell her that she was wrong, to ask her to stay. But in the end, all he said was, "Ok."

Torn between relief and disappointment, she set her mug down and clasped her hands nervously in front of her. "I'll be around for a couple of months yet. They have to replace me before I can leave."

"Until that happens, it would be helpful if we could keep up the engagement charade."

Rachel nodded. "All right."

"I appreciate that." Bruce stood to go. "I'll miss you Rachel."

She tried to meet his eyes and failed. "It's for the best."

"You're right. As always."

- - - - - -

Gordon sat next to the glaring bat-signal, his hands clasped between his knees. He rarely used _the_spotlight, preferring the much more discreet phone number, but he wasn't getting an answer and this was urgent.

There was a deliberate scrape on the roof behind him – the Bat announcing his presence. Without turning around, Gordon said, "I suppose you know Henry Judas confessed, implicating both Andrew Williams and William Earle. We barely caught him on his way to the airport." He paused but there was no response. Gordon squelched the urge to turn around to made sure he actually had an audience before continuing, "The funny thing about the law is, the more money's involved, the more justice everyone seems to think should be given."

"Earle?" the Bat asked.

"The Feds want him. They're shipping him out tonight."

"Fast work."

"Apparently they don't place a lot of confidence in our security. A van's picking him up in an hour. But until then, he's sitting by himself in a little interrogation room on the second floor. Not a bad place, actually. Even got a window." He waited a moment and then lifted a small radio to his mouth. "Fiskers, take a coffee break."

When he was sure the Bat was gone, Gordon let out a low sigh and hunched forward over his knees. He was cold and tired to the bone. Barbara had, understandably, not been entirely thrilled with the way he'd been singled out at the hostage situation, and after he had finally gotten home the night before it had taken two hours to calm her down. He closed his eyes and for a blissful moment imagined what his life would be like had he chosen another profession. Flipping hamburgers, for example. It was steady work with regular hours, and the most complicated moral question involved was _Would you like fries with that?_

- - - - - -

Earle sat alone in the dark room, his wrists handcuffed and his ankle chained to a steel table bolted to the floor. When his guard abruptly left, mumbling something about coffee, and when the lights went out immediately afterward, his flickering hope that he had not been forgotten grew to a bright flame. He was a valuable ally, after all, a faithful servant. Someone would be coming for him.

There was a whisper of movement behind him, and he felt a surge of triumph even as he was jerked from his chair and spun so that his back arced painfully against the sharp edge of the table. The light from the window was only enough to outline a black head and set a gleam in a pair of fiendish eyes.

"_Tell me about Charles Grayson._"

"I…I…" Earle stuttered with fear. He could feel the bones in his back grinding as they were forced backwards. "He came to me…said he had a theory. I offered him workspace, but he wanted anonymity."

"_You had him killed._"

"No! There was someone from his past, following him."

"_Who?"_

"I don't know! That's what he told me, and I didn't care. I just wanted the formula, but he never gave it to me. He or his widow."

Batman grabbed Earle's handcuffed hands and forced them up so that the chain was pressed against the helpless man's throat. "_You started investigating Richard Grayson last fall. Why?_"

"Someone asked me about him," he wheezed.

"_Gatsby?_"

"Yes."

"_He wanted the formula._"

"He didn't know about it. I told him, and he still wasn't…interested. Said it might not even exist."

"_Then why investigate?_"

"He changed his mind - said it was needed."

"_Needed for what?_"

"I don't know. I thought…he was carrying out orders."

Out in the hall, someone rattled the doorknob. Batman's steel grip released, and Earle fell heavily to the floor. By the time his guard entered, the only person in the room was the ex-C.E.O., who lay in a gasping, trembling heap like a beached whale.

- - - - - -

"Where do we stand on the custody issue?" Bruce asked bluntly.

It was Sunday morning. On Saturday, between police matters and company business, he actually hadn't seen Somerville at all, so he had made a special effort to be up for breakfast.

Somerville buttered her toast before answering. "I saw Judge Farr yesterday. He agreed that given the current state of social services, the matter should be dropped. You are to have a checkup in six months time, another in a year, and after that, once a year for four years."

"And that's it?" he demanded, not quite able to believe it.

She lifted her eyebrows in faint mockery. "I got what I came for, Mr. Wayne. I don't have any more time to expend upon your affairs."

Half of Bruce's mind scrambled for a snarky reply, while the other focused on footsteps that were coming toward the kitchen. Alfred's regular tread was easily identifiable, but it was accompanied by a staccato tapping. _Very high heels, but who at this hour..._

Alfred appeared in the doorway. "Miss Somerville, your sister is here."

Somerville actually dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the crystal plate as her expression flitted from shock, to anxiety, to fury. In a matter of seconds, the unshakeable control she had exhibited from their first meeting evaporated. "_What_ are you doing here?"

"I've come to take you home of course." The woman who stepped around Alfred was about the same height as Somerville, but slender, and dressed in a close-fitting maroon dress that showed off her very attractive figure. With her clear olive skin and glossy black hair cut fashionably short she was exotically beautiful, about as unlike the frumpy and severe Somerville as it was possible to get.

"I am on a job, here, Terry."

_Terry?_ Bruce distinctly remembered Somerville implying that Terry was a boyfriend.

"Really? Deek said the job was over."

"Do you have any _idea_ how dangerous this could be?"

Terry walked forward and rested her hands on the breakfast bar. She smiled, a tight, nasty little smile, and Bruce suddenly saw the family resemblance. "Do you have any idea how dangerous _I_ will be, if you don't show up for Christmas like you promised?"

Somerville's anger abruptly dissolved into a look of guilt. "It's still early," she muttered.

"Yes, that's what you said about Thanksgiving, when you didn't show up. And Tamara's birthday. And last Christmas."

"I _explained _about last Christmas."

"I'm tired of your explanations, Cecilia. You can't hide from me forever. Our plane leaves in two hours. You have twenty minutes to pack."

Somerville stared at the other woman defiantly. "You are not my mother."

"Of course not. That's why I can do this." In a swift move, Terry snatched the glasses off her sister's face and cracked them in half. "Go pack."

Somerville blinked, looking dazed. "Fine," she muttered. "I didn't know how I was going to get a plane ticket, anyway." She stalked out of the kitchen.

Terry tossed the broken glasses in the trash, then turned to find Bruce staring unabashedly at her. She threw back her head and laughed, a light, musical sound that was as sophisticated as the rest of her appearance. "Forgive me. You must be wondering who this terrible woman is who storms into your house and makes dreadful scenes at uncivilized hours." She smiled, the smile of woman perfectly aware of her usual effect on men.

He smiled back, an indolent, charming expression he usually reserved for European models. "Not terrible. Intriguing. Refreshing."

She extended a slender, long fingered hand. "Teresa Somerville de Giovanni."

"Bruce Wayne. I can't tell you how absolutely delighted I am to meet you."

She looked up at him wide-eyed, clinging to his hand. "Funny, people always say that to me when they've met Cecilia first. You poor man, has she been very dreadful?"

"Very." He released her hand and helped her to a seat at the counter. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Coffee would be delightful." She perched on the stool, waiting while he found a cup and poured. "I must apologize again for causing such a dreadful scene. Actually, I'm surprised it wasn't worse." She thoughtfully stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee. "She gave in too easily. Which means…she's done something she doesn't want me to find out about." She tilted her head questioningly at Bruce. "Do you know what it is?"

"No idea," he said with perfect sincerity. Somerville had performed enough questionable actions in the past two weeks to upset a dozen sisters.

Dick wandered into the kitchen, looking sleepy, all the hair on the right side of his head sticking straight up. "Hey, Bruce."

"Good morning, sleepy head."

Terry twisted around on her stool. Her eyes widened when she saw the small boy, and an expression of dismay flitted across her face. "_Cielos_. I should have known."

- - - - - -

Alfred watched Somerville fumbling about on the dresser top for a moment before he knocked softly on the doorframe.

She squinted in his direction. "Ah…Mr. Pennyworth?"

"I wondered if I might be of any assistance."

She hesitated, then smiled ruefully. "I would be grateful, since my sister has seen fit to deprive me of my eyesight."

"She seems a very determined woman," he remarked, efficiently gathering the contents of the dresser top and depositing them in her bag. "She reminds me of you."

Somerville snorted.

They worked in silence until the few possessions scattered around the room were neatly stowed in a battered suitcase. Alfred snapped the clasps and lifted it upright. "I don't suppose," he said slowly, "that there's any chance I could persuade you to stay on?"

"I don't quite follow you."

"Master Dick is in need of a new tutor."

She swung her unfocused gaze to him, startled, then squinted fiercely. "You're taking advantage of me, Mr. Pennyworth. Are you quite serious?"

"Perfectly."

"There is not the smallest chance."

"I'm sorry to hear it." He lifted the case and started to leave.

"You weren't supposed to _like_ me," she burst out, aggrieved.

He couldn't resist smiling at her peeved expression, knowing she couldn't see his expression at that distance. "You're a very talented woman, Miss Somerville, but you must remember that I live…here."

"My sympathies."

"I don't need them."

"No," she said thoughtfully, "I don't suppose you do."

- - - - - -

Alfred handed the suitcase to a valet to deposit in the car where Terry was already waiting. Bruce stood in the front hall with Dick by his side, feeling awkwardly formal. Somerville handed him a manila folder. "A copy of the recommendation I'll be sending Judge Farr."

He nodded and extended his hand – his right hand. "Goodbye, Miss Somerville."

She looked at him narrowly for a moment, then placed her crippled fingers in his own. "Goodbye, Mr. Wayne. It could have been worse." She squinted down at Dick. "Goodbye, Richard Grayson. Keep up with your chess and your reading."

"I will. Goodbye, Miss Somerville."

Alfred opened the door for her. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth," she said quietly, and Bruce received the sudden impression she was talking about more than the door.

"You're welcome, Miss Somerville."

She climbed in beside her sister, and the car drove off.

Bruce waited until the vehicle was out of sight. "Is she really gone?"

"Absolutely," Alfred replied a little absently, still staring down the long drive.

Bruce flipped open the folder and scanned through the document inside. "Well, she doesn't exactly give me a glowing character endorsement, but…" He looked up and grinned "…she does recommend that the investigation be dropped. Completely."

"Yeah!" Dick punched the air and ran around in a crazy circle.

Bruce just stood still and let the sweet relief flow through him. "Alfred, that was the most harrowing two weeks of my life. Somerville was right though."

"Was she?"

Bruce shrugged. "It could have been a lot worse."

_All But Concluded_

**A/N** Well peeps, that just about wraps it up! Next week is the Epilogue! (Which is really just the last chapter, but since I had a Prologue, I figured I'd better have an Epilogue too.)

Review Responses are up on my homepage.

Only a week and a half left to respond to the challenge!


	47. Who!

**A/N** AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! …I think that about covers it.

A thousand thank you's to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, for her patience, her speed, her honesty, and her overall _amazing_ work on this story!

**Disclaimer** Forty-five chapters, one Prologue, and one Epilogue later, they're still not mine. Excuse me while I go drown my sorrows in chocolate.

**Epilogue**

_Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes  
__Wherein our Savior's birth is celebrated,  
__This bird of dawning singeth all night long;  
__And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,  
__The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,  
__No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,  
__So hallowed and so gracious is that time._

_- Hamlet_

Dick opened his eyes in the dark bedroom. He could tell it was still early because no light was creeping in around the curtains. There was some reason he had woken up already, something special. Excitement flooded through him, and he bounced out of bed and raced down the hallway. "Bruce! Hey, Bruce!" He burst into the dark bedroom and pounced on the slumbering form of his guardian. "Bruce, wake up! It's Christmas!"

- - - - - -

Gordon squirmed, although he had no reason to be uncomfortable in the wide leather seat. But this was the first time he had ever flown first class (actually, it was only the second time he'd been on a plane in any class), and he couldn't quite get used to the subtle feeling of luxury that clung to the cabin. He absently chewed on the end of his mustache, remembering with irritation the day Bruce Wayne had breezed into his office.

"_Lieutenant Gordon, there's no way I can thank you enough for all you've done for us – for Dick – but I was hoping you'd accept this small token of appreciation as a Christmas gift."_

_Gordon drew himself up proudly, ignoring the proffered envelope. "I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Wayne, but it's all in the job description. If you'd really like to do something, donations to the police widows and orphans fund are always appreciated."_

_Wayne grinned with boyish charm. "I already did that. Please, Lieutenant."_

"_Thanks, but no."_

Wayne had quietly acquiesced, and Gordon had assumed the matter was settled – until, that is, he got home that evening and Barbara and Babs had met him at the front door with shining faces. The arrogant young scoundrel had gone to Gordon's wife behind Gordon's back, and Gordon found himself completely unable to tell her, "No, honey, we can't spend an all expenses paid week at a Caribbean resort."

Barbara, of course, had gone on and on about Wayne's charm and his easy friendliness. "Not at all stuck-up like you'd think," she'd said at least a dozen times. "I'm so glad we didn't sell the stock, especially since Mr. Fox has been cleared. You were right, Jim." But even this concession failed to soothe Gordon's aggravation.

He snatched the in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket in front of him, and flipped through it in an attempt to distract himself. It was filled with beautiful, bronzed, and athletic people having an enormously good time against tropical scenery. _Cruzan welcomes you to the Caribbean (always drink responsibly)...Siesta all day, Fiesta all night – Archer Travel's 210th Mexican Riviera Cruise...Divi Resorts: No we're not expecting royalty, we're expecting you..._

He slapped the magazine shut and stuffed it back in the seat pocket. _Prince of Gotham, my..._

"Can I offer you something to drink, sir?" a blond haired, blue-eyedstewardess with a southern drawl as broad as Texas interrupted his mental fuming.

"Ah, no thanks," Gordon muttered, his eyes just catching sight of her nametag before she turned to serve Barbara and Babs across the aisle. _Did that say what I thought it said?_ The stewardess turned back around to reach the ice, providing him a clear view of the metal pin. _Yep. Chigger. I always knew those southern states were strange_.

The beverage cart moved on, just as Babs squealed, "Mommy! Mommy, look at the ocean!"

Gordon craned his neck to see what she was so excited about. Below them, as the tip of Florida fell away, the noontime sun streamed down onto the Atlantic, transforming the water into a blaze of turquoise. It stretched on and on out to the horizon, brilliant color that took your breath away. It was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen.

Barbara twisted in her seat to look at him, her face more joyful and carefree than he had seen it in months. "Oh, Jim, isn't it just…just…"

"Beautiful," he agreed quietly, not taking his eyes from her face. _I guess my ego can get over it._

She reached across the aisle and caught his hand. "Merry Christmas, Jim."

"Merry Christmas, babe."

- - - - - -

"Once more," Dick pleaded, his wind-nipped cheeks just visible between his snow-crusted hat and scarf. He and Bruce had already taken the new sled down the hill a good two dozen times, and they were late for dinner.

"Alfred will be waiting," Bruce began, but immediately caved in to the pleading look in Dick's eyes. "All right, but _just_ one more."

They ran up the hill, pulling the bright red toboggan behind them. Dick climbed onto the front, and Bruce crouched down at the back.

"Ready, set…" He gave a mighty push and jumped on the back as the sled swooped downward. By now, they had done this so many times that the snow was packed into a hard, shiny track, and halfway down the hill the sled was practically flying, its runners barely skimming the snow. Near the bottom, the toboggan suddenly swerved, they hit a bump, and then Bruce, Dick, and the sled really were airborne and going in three different directions.

Bruce landed hard in a snow bank, the wind momentarily knocked out of him. "Are you all right?" he gasped sitting halfway up to look at his ward. Dick's only response was a burst of laughter, so Bruce flopped back in the snow. "Man, that is the _last_ time I am letting you drive."

Still laughing, Dick crawled over and collapsed beside Bruce. "That was awesome."

"Yeah, it was."

"Hey, Bruce?" Dick suddenly asked, sitting up and peering into his guardian's face.

Bruce squinted up against the pale winter sun. "Yeah?"

"Are you going to marry Rachel?"

_Where did that come from?_ He had wanted to keep the news of the whole fake engagement completely away from Dick, but obviously that had been too much to hope for. "No," he said honestly. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, some people said you were. So I just wondered."

It was hard to tell beneath all the winter wraps, but Bruce thought Dick looked, if anything, slightly relieved. "Yeah, there was kind of a mix-up. But I'm not marrying anyone."

"Ok." Dick scrambled up and went over to retrieve the sled. "I'm hungry!"

"Me too. Race you back."

- - - - - -

"It's the child, isn't it?"

Cecilia snapped out of her reverie and glared at her sister through her new, gold wire frame glasses (Terry's choice). "What are you talking about?"

"You've been moping about in a black depression ever since we returned from Gotham." Terry lifted the spoon out of her pot of chili and tasted it thoughtfully.

"Why should I mope? I've never been so glad to leave a place in my life."

"I know what you look like when you're moping, little sister, and I've never seen you so depressed."

"I am not depressed."

"Yes, you are, and it's because of that boy."

"What boy?"

Terry rolled her eyes in an expressive gesture that said she thought her sister was playing stupid games but would be tolerant. "Richard Grayson. You got attached. You always get attached."

Cecilia shrugged, not debating the point. "He was a nice child. Why would that make me mope?"

Terry pointed her wooden spoon accusingly at her sister. "You were just like this after the girl in Colombia."

"In case you didn't notice," she responded dryly, "Richard Grayson is alive. I am not moping." She reached for a piece of fudge from the plate on the counter.

"You miss him. Why you adore strangers but won't spend time with your family…" Terry forcefully slapped Cecilia's hand away from the candy.

"If I am depressed," Cecilia snarled, rubbing her hand, "maybe it's because you won't even let me have a piece of fudge on Christmas day. If you'd stop abusing me, I'd spend more time with you."

"Fudge is for after dinner." Terry grabbed a bowl out of the fridge and slammed it on the counter. "Have some celery."

"I've been eating celery for a week," Cecilia muttered, but crunched viciously into a stalk. She was picking the strings out of her teeth when the doorbell rang.

"Would you get that?" Terry asked, opening the oven door to check on the turkey.

Cecilia reluctantly pushed herself off her stool and went the front of the house. The balmy Miami breeze swirled around her as she pulled open the front door to reveal two deliverymen on the front porch.

"Good afternoon, ma'am, I've got a registered letter for Cecilia Somerville," one of them said, extending a clipboard.

"And I've got a package for the same party."

She signed for both items and wished the men Merry Christmas before shutting the door on them. She glanced first at the letter, and her eyebrows flew up as shenoticed Rachel Dawes' name on the return address. Tucking the package under her arm, she slit the top of the envelope as she walked into the living room – deserted except for the twinkling tree.

_Dear Cecilia,_

_Henry Judas has, for the past week, been telling us everything he knows about the operation that involved himself, William Earle, and the man called Gatsby. Yesterday, he admitted that although the Joker was responsible for the actual death of Simon Golding, he himself had been poisoning Simon through his insulin, to keep his mind clouded as they began manipulating the work he did at Wayne Enterprises to frame him for the fraud.  
Perhaps you are already aware of this, but he was your friend. I thought that knowing how he truly died might make it easier to cope with, if anything can._

_Sincerely,  
Rachel Dawes_

_Oh Simon_. Cecilia stared blindly out the window, not really seeing the supple palm trees swaying in the wind. She could really mourn now – mourn for the loss of his life, not the loss of his…_goodness, I suppose you would call it. Who would have thought that Rachel Dawes of all people..._ The letter showed an astonishing generosity and sensitivity that she had never before received from the lawyer. _I will never understand that woman._

With a start, she realized she was still holding the package beneath her arm. It really didn't have enough substance to qualify as a package – just a sturdy cardboard envelope that weighed about as much as a deck of cards. There was no name on the return label, but the address was that of Wayne Manor, and she thought she recognized the handwriting. Fumbling a little with her crooked fingers, she ripped off the easy open strip and pulled out a thin manila folder.

Frowning a little, she opened it and found herself looking at a brightly colored brochure advertising a hospital in Los Angeles. The caption on the front proclaimed, _Internationally acclaimed for its cutting edge techniques in reconstructive surgery._ Her hands shaking slightly, she paged through the rest of the documents and found a round trip plane ticket, hotel reservations, and a letter that asked her to authorize the release of her medical records prior to her pre-surgery assessment scheduled on January 2. At the very bottom of the stack was a piece of heavy, cream colored stationery that read simply, _With deepest gratitude –Bruce Wayne._

"Tia C'ia?"

Cecilia started and looked down to find Terry's four-year-old daughter staring up anxiously. "Hola, Tamicita."

"Tia C'ia, are you sad?" the small girl asked anxiously.

She became aware of her own grim expression and quickly replaced it with a smile. "Of course not, cariña. Why would I be sad?"

"I thought maybe you read something sad."

Cecilia knelt down next to Tamara and showed her the brochure. "It's not sad at all. Look, I am going to take a trip to California."

Her niece looked curiously at the picture of the modern white building set against golden sands and blue seas. "Why?"

"So that they can fix my hand."

The girl's eyes grew large, but before she could comment, Terry's voice drifted into the room, "Tammy!"

Tamara clapped a hand over her mouth. "I forgot! We are supposed to go and see abuela now." She ran to the door and looked back over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

"In a minute. Go!" She made a shooing motion, and Tamara ran out.

Cecilia freed the piece of stationery from the pile and read it again, the smile she had created for Tamara's benefit dissolving into a scowl. With impatient movements, she crushed the paper into a small square and shoved it into her jeans pocket, then followed her niece from the room.

- - - - - -

Bruce stood silently in the doorway of the TV room, observing his ward who sat scrunched up in a corner of a couch, his blanket spread over his knees. Partially assembled pieces of the Lego version of the Death Star were spread across the floor, but Dick had abandoned the project and was simply sitting, gently stroking the embroidered robins. Bruce gingerly picked his way through the construction and sat down next to Dick. Without saying anything, he reached out and wrapped his arm around the kid's shoulders.

"You know," Bruce said at last, "your mom was a pretty smart lady. And she knew that something might happen to her before you grew up. So you know what she did?"

"What?"

"Just in case, she left you a message, right here in your blanket."

"She did?"

"Yep. These robins are like a secret language."

Dick looked down and gently stroked one of the birds. "What do they say?"

"It's directions to a hiding place for something your mom – and your dad – left for you."

He took Dick downstairs to the study and showed him a small safe built into the wall. "Anything important you need to keep safe, you can keep in here." He pulled out the knife with Charles Grayson's initials, the locket with the pictures, and the letter. "There were some other papers we can talk about later, but these were the important things."

Dick looked carefully at the necklace and knife, then unfolded the letter.

"Do you want me to read it to you?" Bruce offered.

The boy shook his head. "I can do it." He sat down, right there on the floor, his face a mask of concentration, his mouth moving silently as he worked through the longer words.

Bruce watched him for a moment before moving away to stand by the window and stare out at the setting sun. He had only read the letter once, but was sure he could quote it almost word for word.

_Dear Dick,_

_If you are reading this, then it means that something has happened to us. We pray with all our hearts that you are in a place with people who will keep you safe, and who will love you. There are a lot of terrible things in this world, little Dicky-bird, but don't be afraid of them. Fight the darkness – there is nothing else worth doing. Always remember that, and always remember that we love you. We will always love you, no matter where we are, no matter what has happened to us._

They had been remarkable people. Of course, you didn't really need a letter to tell you that. All you had to do was look at their son.

After a long time, a soft sigh escaped Dick's lips and he stood up. He saw Bruce looking at him and gave a small, sad smile. "I wish I could talk to her. Just one more time."

"I know what you mean," Bruce said seriously. "Go get your coat on. There's something else I want to show you."

Alfred was waiting for them by the door, his own coat already on and buttoned up. _How does he always know?_ Bruce wondered yet again as he led the way outside and to a far corner of the gardens where a short iron fence corralled a largish square of land. "This is the Wayne family cemetery," he explained. "When you're a Wayne and you die, this is where they put you." They walked to the far side of the enclosure where there was still empty space and stopped in front of a large double headstone that had been carefully cleaned of snow. "My parents," Bruce said simply.

They stood there for a moment, staring quietly at the names written on the stone. Then Bruce laid a gentle hand on Dick's shoulder and guided him to the neighboring grave, marked by a smaller, single headstone. The light was fading fast, but they were still able to read _Robyn Grayson_, clearly engraved on the top of the stone. "I thought she belonged here," said the master of Wayne Manor.

Dick stepped forward and traced his finger over the letters. "Is it ok if I stay here for a little while?" he asked, not turning around.

"Sure." Bruce left him there, and walked past Alfred who still stood in front of Thomas and Martha Wayne's grave, to where he could get a clear view across the land.

Putting Robyn here had been the right thing to do, but for how many of his other recent decisions could he say the same? He had made so many choices during the past few weeks, terrible choices that he never wanted to face again, but choices that waited for him every time he descended to the caverns and picked up the mask. Was it worth it? Had it ever been? He doubted his own wisdom, his own strength.

He heard Alfred walk up behind him.

_You lack the courage to do all that is necessary._ That had been Ra's' opinion, and Bruce couldn't help thinking that if his old mentor had been around to witness the conflict with Gatsby, that the same judgment would have been given. _He would have thought_… And then he realized that he didn't care what Ra's would have thought.

He looked at the man next to him. The man who for thirty years had fought for him, waited for him, believed in him. It was Alfred, not Ra's, not even Thomas Wayne, who had ultimately shown Bruce how to fight the darkness - a day at a time, putting one foot in front of the other.

"Am I doing the right thing, Alfred?"

Alfred looked at him for a long moment, his frosty breath hanging in the still air. "Yes, Master Wayne," he said, with absolute conviction.

- - - - - -

Dick knelt on the slight mound in front of the gravestone, ignoring the snow that seeped through his jeans. "Hi mom," he whispered. "I got your letter. I just wanted you to know, I'm doing good. I'm in a place like you wanted me to be in. And I'll do like you and dad said and fight the darkness. I don't know how yet, but Bruce, he does that. He can teach me." Dick drew a deep breath and laid his cheek against the freezing marble.

"I promise."

_The End_

**A/N** Can you believe it? Can you believe you just read those two little words, "The End"? Aren't they incredible?!

**A message for all you lurkers:** If you've read this whole thing, would you please, please break radio silence and write me a review? It can be anonymous, it doesn't have to say anything more than "I read it" (of course, I would _love_ to hear more), but I'd really, really like to get an idea of how many people have actually read the story :D

**Thank you so much**, all of you who have reviewed throughout the course of this story. I can say honestly that without your encouragement I would never have finished it. Accountability is a great thing to have in your life, no matter if it's for fan fiction, keeping your house clean, beating chocolate addictions…

**Remember that the challenge deadline is Wednesday.** I would suggest that we all put CHALLENGE as the first word in our summary, to make it super easy for everyone to find everyone else.

**Responses to reviews for the last chapter can be found on my homepage.**

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for (maybe)…

_Coming soon_

_Richard Grayson: Boy Wonder, Super Sidekick. Or he would be, if Bruce Wayne would stop telling him to do his homework and let him start saving the world._

**Monkey See, Monkey Do**

_Online December 17_

In essence, this story picks up five years after the ending of _Dark Horizon_, and will cover the beginning of Dick's transformation to Robin. I'm sorry I can't start it until December, but I've got to get through the rest of this semester first! If you need a Batman fix before then, read the challenge entries and check out E Kelly's story Fall to Grace, which is nice and long.

_See you all in December!_


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